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Privately Printed at the Wiversiy 


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CONTENTS. 


2 


PREFATORY . : : s : t's ; ; : 
IN MEMORIAM .- srs : : ; ‘ ; : 


POEMS. 


THE CONNECTICUT, OR RIVER OF PINES ; ; : ; 

FOUND AT LAST . E . % : : 5 : : 

Sse Ar SEA. ; , ‘ : : ‘ é ; : 

LAKE OF MELROSE é S| - : 

CHRISTMAS BELLS . ; F ; : : : 3 

A DREAM ; : : F ; ; : : 

LINES SUGGESTED ON READING THE SUDDEN Date OF MISS 
| ae, ee A : : ; ‘ ; ; : : 

WITH A Moss-wWREATH ‘ ; ; ; , 

REMEMBER THEE . : ‘ : ; 

To THE CUBANS, UPON THE Meera OF Dr. pe : : 

ON WITNESSING THE FUNERAL OF THE LATE JONAS CHICK- 
ERING. . : ; : : ‘ ‘ 

To A BrrD oN ASH-WEDNESDAY : : ; , 

LAKE COTTAGE, MELROSE : : , 

To My ABSENT HUSBAND . : : P : : 

IN EARLY SPRING . ; x ‘ : : : ‘ , 

AN EVENING IN JULY. : . : : : : : 

AFTER-THOUGHTS . : : : ; : : 

ON LEAVING ST. JOHN’s CHURCH, CHARLESTOWN 

To my LItTLE SON ON HIs TWELFTH BIRTHDAY 

LINES TO SHARON SPRINGS. ‘ : j , : 

TO THE SENIOR WARDEN OF ST. JOHN’s CHURCH, CHARLES- 
TOWN ‘ ; : : é ; ; - : ; 


PAGE 


lv CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED AT AN ORDINATION AT THE CHURCH 
OF THE MESSIAH, BOSTON, SEPTEMBER 25, 1856 . 59 
LINES AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED 'ro Mrs. E. P. .. Peg on 
LINES SUGGESTED AT THE FUNERAL OF A LOVELY CHILD 63 
IMPROMPTU : : : : : : : ‘ : Ss 
A LOVE-DREAM . ; : : ; F : ; : 66 
Hours oF Bitss ; : : ‘ : ; : , . 68 
‘AN APPEAL FOR MELROSE . : ‘ F ; : : 70 
To THE SHIP NORTHERN EMPIRE . : : . ‘ ste 
MORNING WALK IN JUNE . ‘ : : ’ : , 74 

To Dr. PERRY, WITH A CLUSTER OF VIOLETS, IN HIS LAST 
LiANESS = ; : , : : : : os RY 
At LAMENT’. ; ' z : : ‘ : : ; 79 
THE Dyinc Boy To HIS MOTHER . : : : 4 hh 
GAS. -C. ; : E ; ; ‘ , ‘ ; : 84 
THE BEREAVED MOTHER ; ; ' : ; ‘ Po ey 
LINES TO ——— . ; ; ’ ; : : gi pee 87 
LINES AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO Mrs. D. W. G. 3) OS 
INVITATION TO CONFIRMATION .: : : : : Q2 
My Home. ¢ : ; : ; j ; ‘ : Gs 
LINES ON WASHINGTON’S BIRTHDAY, 1858 ; : : 97 

WITH A WREATH, ON THE DEATH OF A VALUED FRIEND, 
| tee, : : ; : : , ‘ ‘ male: 
RESURRECTION FLOWER : ; : ; : : ; IOI 
ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. WILLIAM FLINT, D. D. }: TINS 
IMPROMPTU . : ; 2 ‘ : ; : ; : 105 
CUBA . ‘ . : : , ; : : : r ». FOG 
To RALPH, ON HIS SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY, JULY 21, 1859. 108 
A TRIBUTE : ; ; : : : ; : : eae 
LINES IN ILLNESS , ; ; ‘ . : ‘ , : 112 
IsLES OF SHOALS ; : : ‘ ; : ; : Rees | 
To AN UNKNOWN PORTRAIT : F : ‘ 4 ‘ 116 
AFTER A SERMON . ; : ; : ‘ d ; LES 
ON A LETTER ; ; ‘ : ; : 3 : : 120 
WITH A WATCH-CASE ; : : : ie ’ ce Rag 


LINES FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING ; 5 : : : 124 


* 


CONTENTS. Vv 


PAGE 
To THE FuTURE OCCUPANT OF MY HOME AT.MELROSE . 125 
(ry INCIDENT. ‘ : é ‘ F . 131 
AFTER A SERMON BY THE Peco OF ST. Manic’: CHURCH 133 
LINEs To Miss M. H., JUNE, 1861 : 2 ; y teeiaS 
‘IMPROMPTU FOR A GIFT OF ROSES _. ; : ; ‘ 137 
MORNING PRAYER AT ST.. MARK’S CHAPEL . : é ee Cie. 
CONFIRMATION. ; ‘ ; 5: : Moet : 140 
To A FRIEND . ‘ : ; 3 ‘ ; ‘ ra 143 
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE 124TH SELECTION OF PeAEMS : 147 
MARION. : : : : ; : : : ; . 149 
A REQUEST . : : : . : ; : ; See ET | 
LOCKING THE Door. : ‘ ; : : : : are 
IN MEMORIAM ; : . ; : : : ; 155 
ON RECEIVING THE CARTE-DE-VISITE OF A FRIEND. romey Cy 
REPLY TO A TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN ‘ P 159 
EO A ROBIN. ; aes : ‘ . , ee 
To Mrs. L——. ‘ ; ‘ : ; ‘ : " 163 
VALENTINE CONGRATULATORY ‘ ; : . : os THA 
Do WAIT, IF YOU CAN . ; ? : ; : : : 166 
LINES SUGGESTED BY A LETTER FROM THE THIRTY-FIFTH 
MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT . SN : : . 169 
OUR VOLUNTEER’S BIRTHDAY . : : ; ; ; Lh 
WITH A MEERSCHAUM . ; : : ; : ; ee 
In MEMORIAM ' : : . : : . 175 
THE ROYAL STEAMSHIP CANADA . ; : : . i TT 
LINES TO MYSELF AFTER DISAPPOINTMENT : ; ‘ 179 
Oeeewes PictuURE of “Maup MULLER” : +. . . 181 
ON CHRISTENING THE AMMONOOSUCK ; ‘ : 182 
TWIN SISTERS . : ‘ ; ; : : ‘ : ‘184 
MARY OF BETHANY . ; : : : : : 185 
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE Readiee store IS COOL THIS 
MORNING”. - : : ‘ ; . ‘ oe. foe 
ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE CUBA . . : 190 
ON REVISITING ST. JOHN’s CHURCH, onTenoern. N. HL. ~ 462 


LINES ON THE PORTRAIT OF THE LATE Dr. DELANY, U.S. N. 195 
AN INCIDENT . ‘ : ; , ; : : , dO 








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PREFATORY. 


—o—— 


Tuts volume includes nearly all the published and 
manuscript poems that have been preserved among Mrs. 
Rice’s papers, and is now offered to her friends as a last 
and fitting memento of her love. It is believed that it 
will be dear to them all ; not only for the many graceful 
verses which it contains, and the tender memories these 
awaken, but more especially because it is her own rec- 
ord of a life in whose thoughts and emotions they have 
shared, and which they prize the more now that it is a 
lost treasure. 

Many of Mrs. Rice’s poems were called forth by events 
in the lives of those she loved, or by scenes in which she 
took part; and all reveal that liveliness of fancy, that 
warmth of feeling, and quick, rare sympathy so endearing 
to all who knew her. The earlier pieces, written at 
Melrose, are pictures of the natural beauties about her 


there, which she always loved to recall, while those com- 
x 


2 PREFATORY. 


posed during her residence in Boston reflect the fuller 
life and more stirring public events of those later years. 
Preceding her own poems, will be found a few affec- 


tionate tributes written at her death by sorrowing friends. 
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IN MEMORIAM. 


It is a beautiful custom common to all civilized nations, Pagan as 
well as Christian, — the attempt to preserve a memorial of the virtues 
and character of the loved and lost who have gone before us to the 
spirit land ; and whether we resort for this purpose to the inscribed 
and votive tablet, or attempt, so to speak, to embalm the record in 
letters, the effort seems to spring from a common instinct of the 
human heart, which prompts us all to treasure up the memory of our 
departed friends, and to find some outlet for the grief which oppresses 
our hearts. 

I saw in your last week’s issue a poetical tribute to the memory of 
the late Mrs. Rice, wife of Samuel Rice, Esq., of Boston, and I 
thought it would be becoming and appropriate to insert in your 
paper, of which she was an occasional contributor and correspond- 
ent, an obituary notice of the deceased. 

It seems peculiarly appropriate to select the “Journal,” as it is 
published near ‘the play places of her youth,” and where a large 
portion of her early life was passed 

Mrs. Rice, for years, had been occasionally subject to attacks of a 
most severe and painful nature, from which she had always, hereto- 
fore, been apparently restored to her usual health. 

But only a short time since, from what was to her a state of 
high health — for she had just written to a physician in the country, 
who in July last had attended and carried her through a most severe 
and somewhat protracted illness, “that she was as well as she ever 
was in her life” —— she was suddenly and unexpectedly stricken down, 
never again to recover. Her death was entirely unexpected, not only 
to her friends, but also to the eminent physicians in attendance. So 
sudden, indeed, was it, that many of her most intimate friends were 
not aware of her illness. 


6 IN MEMORIAM. 


Mrs. Rice possessed more than the usual personal attractions which 
fall to the lot of her sex. If personal beauty is to woman one of 
the greatest of the gifts which come from the great and good God, 
Mrs. Rice had certainly reason to be grateful for the portion allotted 
to herself. She possessed an intellect keen, quick, and appreciative, 
a disposition sweet and genial, in combination with a controlling 
will, and always in health, and sometimes in illness, a never ceasing 
flow of spirits, which seemed to well up and sparkle as from a foun- 
tain of perpetual joy. Few, even of her own sex, ever possessed 
more power to create an atmosphere of cheerfulness and happiness 
wherever she moved. She bound her friends to her by cords which 
nothing but death could sever. When she had once deliberately 
formed a friendship it was for life, but in the selection of her friends 
she adopted the advice of Polonius in Shakespeare, of whom she was 
a constant student : — 

“The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 
Grapple them to, thy soul with hooks of steel: 


But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 
Of each new hatched, unfledged comrade.” 


Her natural tendencies were always to a “‘ fit audience find, though 
few,” rather than to mingle with the crowd. 

Marrying as she did in very early life, to a great extent Mrs. Rice 
was a self-taught woman. In a quiet and unobtrusive manner she 
devoted much of her time to literary cultivation, but it was all done 
without the least affectation or parade. She occasionally wrote poetry, 
some of which would pass under the head of what is called Vers de 
Société, but occasionally, in moments of great distress or sorrow, she 
would strike a deeper chord, which would vibrate to some of the 
highest and most sacred feelings of the human soul. Without in- 
tending to institute any comparison between any of her poetry and 
that of Moore or Byron, still, in one respect there is a resemblance, 
for in the opinion of the writer their best poetry is their ‘“ Sacred 
Melodies,” as her best efforts were those which touched upon the 
soul and the life to come. Some of her poetry has been set to music 
by a German gentleman of cultivation and taste. One piece is called 
the ‘Lake of Melrose,” on the beautiful borders of which she once 
resided, but where she always thought she contracted a disease which 
haunted her till her death. 


IN MEMORIAM. y | 


The other is just published, called ‘‘ Christmas Bells,” and was 
intended as a surprise and a present at Christmas to the eminent 
young physician and surgeon who carried her successfully through 
the terrible sickness of last summer above alluded to at Hanover, 
N. H., and to whom it is dedicated. When some of us at the coming 
Christmas may be listening to her own sweet ‘‘ Christmas Bells,” she 
will be listening to a far higher, and sweeter, and nobler strain. 

In domestic life Mrs. Rice was an admired wife, a kind and ten- 
der mother, a generous friend. Born, I believe, in the Portsmouth 
Navy Yard, and having been brought up by an uncle, who was an 
officer on the old Constitution, —a beautiful model of which, made by 
her uncle on board the old “Ironsides,” she always kept in her room, 
—she seemed to regulate her household, as it were, by naval, or mili- 
tary regulations. In all her household arrangements there was the 
same spirit of order, of quiet, of subordination, and obedience. And 
yet with all this strictness, it was the law of love. For her servants 
loved her and never left her, living with her continuously for years, and 
nothing ever taking them away but their marriage. It was delight- 
ful, in these days of domestic insubordination, to be in a household 
where the lady of the house, and not the servants, was the mistress. 

To her friends, Mrs. Rice was always ready to dispense a quiet and 
elegant hospitality. ‘To the poor, she was always a generous and 
sympathizing friend, giving to them not only of her worldly goods, 
but what in many cases was a still higher and better charity, advice 
and sympathy, and her best exertions to put them in a way to help 
themselves. 

But there was a still higher character which our departed friend 
possessed, that of the true and sincere Christian. Without a particle 
of cant, or bigotry, or uncharitableness, she was a believer in Chris- 
tianity ; and it was not a dreamy, uncertain, hazy belief, like much of 
what is called Christianity at the present day, but with mind, heart, 
and soul, she believed in a personal God; she believed in God’s rev- 
elation ; she believed in the Son of God, who came to redeem us from 
our sins; she believed in the Holy Spirit, the glorious and blessed 
Trinity, the holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, and the resur- 
rection of the body, and the life everlasting. 

Mrs. Rice had been, for a long time, a communicant in the Episco- 
pal church. 


8 IN MEMORIAM. 


Few women who have led lives as quiet and unobtrusive as hers, 
have ever touched life at so many points. This was strikingly exem- — 
plified at her funeral, where were seen sad, and sorrowing, and weep- 
ing friends from all classes in life, — the young and the old, the rich 
and the poor, the uncultivated as well as the highly cultured, —all 
classes from her own sex, from the humble seamstress to the gay and 
fashionable woman of society. There came, too, to take their last 
look of her, representatives from all classes and creeds in the com- 
munity, —the Rev. Father of the Roman Catholic Church, the 
Baptist clergyman, the Orthodox, and the Unitarian, as well as the 
clergy of her own communion, the Episcopal. 

The funeral services were celebrated at the Church of the eee 
on Florence St., on Thursday last, by the Rev. Mr. Knight; and at 
the grave by the rector of the church, the Rev. Mr. Williams. 

I need not speak of the beautiful and touching burial service of the 
Church —rendered more impressive by the shock produced by her 
sudden and unexpected death, and more beautiful by all the means 
and appliances which affection, and love, and art could devise to 
take away the gloom of the grave. 

Mrs. Rice has herself, at times, anticipated death in some of her 
terrible attacks. Not long since, when apparently in good health, 
she said to an intimate lady friend, “‘ When I die, I care not what 
dress you put upon me, but cover me with flowers ” — for which, like 
all true and beautiful souls, she had a passionate love. 

Her request was carried out to the letter, and in most beautiful 
- taste. In addition to the casket, which was covered and filled with 
them, the chancel of the church was lined on each side with a pro- 
fusion of beautiful plants and flowers, while a wreath followed the 
outlines of the chancel front to the roof, and between each arch of 
the church was suspended a basket of flowers by a line so delicate as 
to escape observation, so that they really seemed to be poised and 
suspended in the air by some invisible power. The whole church 
was redolent of their perfume. 

The writer of this sketch has never seen any floral arrangement, 
on such an occasion, which ever began to approach it in beauty ; 
and no funeral services-could be more beautiful and impressive than 
those of our departed friend. A large congregation were in attend- 


LIN MEMORIAM. 9 


ance at the church, and a host of friends followed her to her last rest- 
ing-place — the wardens and vestry-men of the church assisting as 
pall-bearers. 

On a bright and beautiful day we took all that remained to us of 
our departed friend, and laid her down in the beautiful cemetery of 
“Forest Hills,” there to rest till the graves are opened, and the dead 
shall rise to life everlasting. 

Mrs. Rice was, by descent, partly of Spanish blood, her father hav- 
ing been born, I think, on the Spanish Peninsula. She showed 
something of the Spanish blood in her brunette complexion, and in 
the beauty and brilliancy of her eyes. She had also some of the 
best traits of the Spanish character, in her entire self-poise and reli- 
ance, and, when among strangers, in her retiring and dignified 
demeanor. 

She showed it also in another tendency, common to all the Latin 
races, a love for the services and the worship of the Roman Catholic 
Church. It was not unusual for her to attend vespers at the Church 
of the Immaculate Conception, and she went there not as a spectator 
—not to assist, as it were, at a splendid and imposing ceremonial or 
a gorgeous spectacle, but to listen to penitential psalms of David 
chanted to the music of the great masters of the art, and to worship, 
in spirit and in truth, the great Father of us all. 

To those who did not know Mrs. Rice, all this may seem like 
extravagant eulogy, but there are many of her lady friends — and to 
make and retain friendships among her own sex is the true test of a 
true woman — who, to use the language of Ames in regard to Ham- 
ilton, will truly say, that when they think of her their hearts grow 
liquid as they think, and they could pour them out like water. 

I would not say of Mrs. Rice, as Leigh Hunt, I think, said of some 
beautiful character, “ To have known her and to have loved her was 
equal to a liberal education,” but certainly no one could know Mrs. 
Rice well without being made better by the acquaintance, or without 
being lifted to higher and better aspirations. — Portsmouth Fournal. 


10 IN MEMORIAM. 


OBITUARY. 


IN memory of Maria Theresa Rice, wife of Samuel Rice, Esq., of 
Boston, who died on the morning of the 30th of November, 1868. 

Those who have never seen the face, or heard the voice, or shared 
in the hospitalities of her home, beneath the shelter of her love, will 
feel no more than a momentary grief when reading a brief tribute of 
tried affection for the memory of this genial, generous, and gifted 
woman. But alas! there are many who will never cease to forget or 
fail to appreciate what a beautiful treasure of energy, of life and hope 
and love, of warmth of affection and grace, now lies buried in her new- 
made grave. To the latter class, friends and acquaintances not a 
few, who knew her inward heart and enjoyed her sympathies and 
affections, the writer would hope to place on record for their benefit 
a sincere and faithful portraiture of her virtues, her attractions, and 
varied accomplishments. 

Mrs. Rice was a lady of no ordinary endowments of mind. With 
a genius undeveloped, she gave evidence of much culture and mental 
training. Her tastes were pure, simple, and refined. She had read 
much, and her judgment was strengthened bya clear and well-defined 
appreciation of real merit. She loved nature with an intense passion, 
' and from her sweet communion with all of nature’s works, she was 
able to throw off into sparkling verse, striking and beautiful senti- 
ments worthy the genius of a true Christian poetess. 

The broad, rich landscape, with its diversified hill and dale, stimu- 
lated the purer aspirations of her heart; and the wild flowers 
springing from the mould in the clefts of the rocks, created in her 
deep and sublime religious thoughts. She loved flowers in sunshine 
and in shade, “in camp and festival, before the altar and beside the 
hearth.” If before she died the angel of death had asked her where 
she wished to be buried, whether in the tomb or under the shade of 
cathedral domes, she would have replied in unaffected simplicity, “O, 
no! no! Bury me— 


‘On an opening lawn — but not too wide ; 
For I love the drip of the wetted trees ; 
I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze 
To freshen the turf; put no tombstone there, 
But green sods decked with daisies fair.’ ”” 


LN MEMORIAM. II 


The religious element in the character of Mrs. Rice was beautifully 
developed in her strong Christian faith. Her earlier and later 
reading, her silent meditations and fellowship with sacred books and 
church music were in complete harmony with the quiet and unobtru- 
sive conduct of her daily life. In her domestic relations she was 
cheerful, hopeful, and of tender sympathies; as wife, mother, and 
friend, she was dutiful, affectionate, devoted, and kind. To the 
bereaved family her death came suddenly and without warning, but 
it was serene and tranquil. After a long, long night of suffering and 
pain, she quietly passed away, — 

‘Gentle as when morning stealeth 


O’er the earth and sea and air.”’ 
Boston Post. 


A TRIBUTE. 


WEAVE flowers, the snowiest that the seasons bear, 

Sheltered in tropic heats from frost and wind, — 
Sweet tuberoses and camellias cold, 

To faith’s pure emblems for her bier entwined ; 
All blossoms that she loved strew lightly there ; 
And let great lilies in their beakers hold 

Fresh knots of violets, with dew-drops lined. 


She worshipped beauty ; make her own home fair, 
Ere the dear mistress must for aye depart ; 
Garland the arches of the sacred dome, 
And hang bright baskets, trembling in the start 
Of organ-thunder, and the chanted prayer : 
Thus will we bear her to her final home, 
Smothered in flowers, as wished her poet-heart. 


Dust unto dust falls into cups of bloom 
Heaped o’er her breast, as softly as our tears ; 
Cold is the sunshine as we homeward turn, 


12 


IN. MEMORIAM, 


In silence, pondering the coming years, 
And this great loss that fills them all with gloom ; 
Then o’er the past our loving fancies yearn, 

And, clearly mirrored, every scene appears. 


Again, dear friend, along a hill-side, sweet 
With ox-eyed daisies, while the sun goes down, 
We tread, enraptured, toward the golden haze 
Whose molten glory fuses spire and town ; 
Or, hand in hand, we pace the crowded street, 
As merry as the birds, that spend their days 
Singing to skies that know not how to frown. 


For daily friendships, other souls, serene 
And fond, content us ; but when wild with glee 

Our thoughts are bounding, and the tides of life 
Flow on exultant, — where then may we see 

In wit’s gay tournament a lance so keen 

To shiver ours, in quick, responsive play ? 
Where seek the mood to mate our rhapsody? 


And must we miss forever from the hearth 

That glad, low laugh, those bright impulsive ways, 
And silvery accents, eager to impart 

Their spoken music, while before our gaze 
Droop the soft lids that quiver with their mirth? 
The earth is empty since that fervid heart 

Sleeps underneath it, silent while we praise. 


The lightest griefs our summer hours have known 
She shared in pity, and our sorrows bore ; 

Now, billowy seas of agony may roll 
And her warm sympathy can cheer no more, 

Feeling all woes as keenly as her own: 

Throned in her breast there dwelt a royal soul, 
Kin to that empress whose proud name she wore. 


Ye muffling snows of winter, still delay ; 
Sharp be the air, and bright ; that we may hear 
The music of her own glad Christmas Bells, 


IN MEMORIAM. 13 


Through frozen sunshine, ringing sweet and clear ; 
Then shall we fancy that she lists their play, 
Afar, at morn, in fields of asphodels, 
And smiles to think that still we hold her dear. 
A. G. W. 
Boston Transcript, December, 1868. 


THERESA. 
By Tuomas G. SPEAR. 


I siGH for the ioss of a beautiful friend, 
Just silently gone from my vision forever ; 
But sweet are the thoughts that my sorrow attend, 
For her life of serene and sublimest endeavor ; 
For her pride at each lofty and well-acted part 
In the pathways that lead to humanity’s glory, 
And her zest for the soul-sent achievements of art, 
In the annals of Genius and classical story ; 


For her love of the light and the beauty that shines 
Abroad in the universe, wisdom unfolding ; 

For devotion to duty, wherever the lines 
Of precept and reason her hands were upholding ; 

For her aim at the prize that rewardeth the just, 
Her days and her years as a joyful believer, 

And her triumph o’er all of despair and distrust, 
Till the angel of Constancy came to receive her. 


I knew her in womanhood, dwelling in peace 

By the marge of a lake with its lily-crowned water, 
Where the charms of her home found a daily increase 

In the gentle control of this raven-haired daughter. 
She ministered sweetly, and wisely, and well, 

In her sylvan retreat of contentment and leisure, 
And over the place hung the passionless spell 

Of gladness and peace, of endearment and pleasure. 


14 


IN MEMCRIAM. 


She dwelt among flowers, enjoying their blooms, 
In garden, and trellis, and bowery places, 
And studied their hues and partook their perfumes, 
As they bowed to the breezes their sun-loving faces : 
“ Sweet Eden of beauty! O, exquisite sight !” 
She said, as she watched them luxuriantly growing ; 
“Ve give to my senses unwonted delight, 
Life’s perishing emblems of Nature’s bestowing. 


‘ And we are but kindred, for I too must fade, 
And fall as the leaves do, in autumn descending ; 
And when they shall lay me away in the shade, 
Whatever the state on my body attending, 
Let flowers be brought from the sunlight and air, 
By delicate fingers to strew o’er my sleeping, 
And exhalingly lie in their loveliness there, 
While the friends of my youth their last vigils are keeping 


“ Bring them at morning, bespangled with dew ; 
Bring them with nectar of Nature’s distilling ; 
Bring them at noon, while their odors are new, 
And the wild birds are warbling their melodies thrilling, 
And weave them in garlands, while fragrant and gay, 
And drop them about me in vestal profusion ; 
Then leave us together, while passing away, 
Like a bright but an often-remembered illusion.” 


Sweet prayer of a spirit to Beauty allied ! 

Thy funeral garlands are gathered and braided ; 
And Friendship has paid thee the rites of a bride, 

Adorned for the couch by the cypresses shaded. 
And over the pathway that led to thy bourn, 

And over the sod where thy form is reposing, 
The blossoms of virtue unfading return, 

And daily thy life is its perfume disclosing. 


SAN FRANCISCO, July 25, 1869. 





TEN AT MELROSE, 





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POEMS. 


—o—— 


THE CONNECTICUT, OR RIVER OF PINES. 


WHO would not wander where nature com- 
bines 
To render so lovely that River of Pines? 
Till the heart there expands with rapture, delight, 
As mine on a beautiful midsummer’s night : 
Ah, while these communings so sweet I review, 
While mystical scenes shine with splendor anew, 
I'd tell of a picture that memory entwines 
With the banks of yon beautiful River of Pines. 


The fragrance of leaf, the perfume of flower, 

In soft breezes mingled, that star-lighted hour, 
And came in low whispers through forest trees tall, 
And distant, the murmuring, musical fall ; 

There, rushing and foaming, their waters below 
From fountains exhaustless forever they flow ; 

The wild wood was mirrored, and clustering vines, 


Festooning the banks of yon River of Pines. 
2 


18 THE CONNECTICUT, OR RIVER OF PINES. 


Through vistas of beauty, the landscape so still 
Beyond did my dreams of enchantment fulfill ; 

No fairer of Eden has poet e’er sung, 

No fairer did Milton e’er revel among: 

A spell seemed to reign over earth and through skies 
No language can paint, but the spirit replies 

To the beauty of day, when its glory declines, 
Crimsoning the waves of this River of Pines. 


While pausing, enraptured, by slope and by steep, 
I yielded my ear to thoughts chastened and deep ; 
From genius and worth, from a well-cultured mind, 
All nature so hushed seems to worship inclined ; 
A voice,—aye, allow me to whisper the whole, 
Each syllable thrilled with power to my soul, — 
The echo vibrates those electrical lines, 

From eloquent lips, by that River of Pines. 


Those snatches were brief, yet they fell on the ear 

In tones unimpassioned, pathetic, and clear ; 

Some chords that were touched with deep sorrow 
were strung, : 

From others what marvelous melody rung: 

Ah, why attempt to portray or compare, 

While music defies, with its colorings rare ; 

When matchless the hues my ideal enshrines, 

‘Of minstrel and song, by this River of Pines. 


Mountains were slumbering in silence profound ; 


With stars and with moonlight their summits were 
crowned ; 


THE CONNECTICUT, OR RIVER OF PINES. 19 


While pensive we roamed o’er that dew-spangled sod 
In the twilight, it seemed the twilight of God ; 
Imbued with a spirit of reverence, bliss, 

No pleasure, no joy can be likened to this, 

When the heart its holiest emotions resigns 

To pictures beheld on this River of Pines. 


And there is a season of loveliness, bliss, 
Outvying the beauty, the splendor of this ; 

When autumn transforms these midsummer views 
With its magical tints, its radiant hues ; 

Go, sit by those banks, and compose, or compare 
The spiritual charms of this river so fair ; 

Why should I profane, with my imperfect lines, 
The wonders unrolled by this River of Pines. 


Unfolding, e’en now, like a vision, a dream, 

The shadows take shape, then realities seem ; 
Were a sunbeam my pen, as melting its light, 
They’d vanish no faster, these views, while I write ; 
A prophetical link, perchance, in the chain, 

The beautiful soul may roam here again, 

And this but a glimpse which the Bible defines 

Of regions surpassing the River of Pines. 


Fair River of Pines, with thy mountains and plains, 
How rich are thy valleys, all golden with grains, 
And thy herb-scented groves, so vast and so dim! 
Thy solitudes teem with the greatness of Him: 
The cataract’s fall, and its thundering roar, 

Will greet the lone Indian’s ear nevermore ; 


20 THE CONNECTICUT, OR RIVER OF FINES. 


Their sorrows are past, yet tradition divines 
How peaceful their homes by this River of Pines. 


Now cottages, shaded by arbor or grove, 

Where Nature, where Art, all their treasures have 
wove: 

Gems from the forest and the tropics are there, 

Transplanted with taste and with infinite care ; 

No discord ; and there, O, how sweet to recall 

Hospitality’s smile embellishing all ; 

A magnetic star—in full glory it shines, 

Adorning the homes of this River of Pines. 


There temples of peace, with their time-hallowed 
walls ; : 

Each Sabbath to duty the pilgrim recalls : 

The ambassadors plead with fervor and love — 

That dews may descend from those rivers above ; 

The spirit unveiled, soon, alas, may behold 

Those rivers immortal, with grandeur untold: 

Permitted to worship no more in these shrines, 

How calm will they rest by this River of Pines. 


Like a monarch robed, see Ascutney there stand, 
His cloud-top o’erlooking the beautiful land ; 

And all that a student of truth may desire, 

All that the sublime and the great can inspire, 

Is found here, the heart and the mind to expand ; 
How sacred the theme, O, how classic and grand 
Are yon halls where Science unfolds her pure mines, 
When sought are her gems, by this River of Pines. 


fe CONNECTICUT, OR RIVER OF PINES. a] 


To banqueting halls by that river-side fair, 

To notes that were sounded to welcome me there, 
I fain would bestow, O, I fain would express 

A prayer, that all the good angels may bless ; 

For tenderness, sympathy, gushing and free, 

My heart shall respond in its fullness to thee ; 
While Hope shall illume, and while Memory shines 
In spirit I’ll roam by this River of Pines. 


FOUND AT LAST. 


MOTHER! here, on this old tree, 
A tiny nest ; 
This apple-bough — O haste and see 
Red-robin’s breast ! 


This nest, it is so sweetly made 
Of straw, hair, lace : 

The clay is just like plaster laid, 
With skill and grace. 


And green leaves, like a curtain, fall 
Over her head ; 

Resting softly, bright breast and all ; 
Who made her bed? 


See, mother, Robin red-breast stole 
That tiny sleeve 

Of baby’s, made of cambric fine ; 
Would you believe? 


Your basket on the window there 
All open lay, 

When robin in her beak did bear 
The lost away. 


FOCND AT LAST. 


We searched the house in every place, 
Grace, Bell, and I, 

To find the pretty sleeve of lace 
Robin placed high. 


It formed a portion of her nest 
Swung from the bough ; 

Sweet bird, with little scarlet breast, 
We've caught you now! 


#2 


LOST AT SEA. 


SISTER LOUISA. 


Ae sister, as the years roll by, 
I miss thee from my side ; 
Thy counsels and thy company, 
Thy voice, thy heart to guide ; 
Just when the heavy clouds began 
To gather round my head, 
Just when I needed most thy care, 
They whispered thou wert dead. 


The ship, —alas! that dreadful day — 
We waited by the strand, 

To see it bear thy form away 
From this our native land ; 

’Twas in the early spring, when birds 
Make musical the air ; 

They seemed to mock our parting words, 
And, too, our parting prayer. 


How radiant with hope thy brow! 
With love thy heart how warm! 

But O, beloved sister, now 
Where rests thy lovely form? 


LOST An SHA. 25 


No tidings ever came to me, 
And weary years have sped ; 

Alas! alas! and this may be 
Till seas give up their dead. 


No token here to gaze upon, 
Not e’en a lock of hair, 

Which fell in sunny braids, around 
Thy beauteous face so fair. 


LAKE OF MELROSE. 


WOULD tell of a beautiful streamlet that flows 
Down a moss-covered bank to the Lake of Mel- 
rose. 
It gushes, and gurgles, and ripples around, 
And falls o’er the rocks with a musical sound, 
While the woods and the orchards with verdure are 
dressed, 
And the feathery songster is building his nest: 
There the sweet lily blooms and the violet grows, 
Adorning the banks of the Lake of Melrose. 


And when summer outspreads her carpet of green, 

The fresh morning dew-drops bespangle the scene, 

Till nursed with the moisture and warmed with the 
light, 

There the buttercup blooms and gladdens the sight ; 

And, too, the sweet violet peeps from its bed ; 

Beside it the pink rears its sisterly head ; 

And over them all, while the bright water flows, 

The cedar and fir shade the Lake of Melrose. 


There a spell of enchantment oft brings to my view 
A fair Indian maid in her birchen canoe, 


LAKE OF JITELROSE. 27 


With her plumes and her wampum, and dark raven 
hair, 

So fitfully singing some wild pensive air: 

Alas for their sires, they shall never build more 

A canoe or a home on this beautiful shore ; 

And dark is the tale of their wrongs and their woes 

As they fled from the banks of this Lake of Melrose. 


The camp-fire once blazed on yon gray, craggy 
height, 

And threw forth the glare of its magical light ; 

And the eagle-eyed Indian there counted his game, 

And ‘reigned in the wilds till the pale-faces came. 

But here would I linger midst trees, birds, and 
flowers, 

To soothe all my cares and beguile my sad hours, 

And sit by the banks where the bright water flows, 

And share in the charms of the Lake of Melrose. 


How suggestive the scene where the soft shadows 
fall, 

Of the maple and willow ; how sweet to recall 

That Lord’s own day when an ambassador led 

The lambs of his fold whom the Saviour had fed : 

There I caught the rich strains of the baptismal 
rhyme 

By the multitude sung on that bank; how sublime, 

How thrilling, how pure, O, how dear till life’s close, 

And sacred, the charms of the Lake of Melrose. 


CHRISTMAS BELLS. 


See bells, are ye playing? I list at my door ; 
Yes, list to the music that charmed me of yore ; 

Ah, well I remember in life’s early dawn, 

Ye told the blest story, a Saviour was born. 

Though still unawakened, I trembled with fear, 

Aye, trembled while ye were entrancing my ear: 

E’en now those bright pictures in joy seem to rise 

While ringing your anthems this eve through the 

skies — 


Those beautiful pictures in Bethlehem, where 

The shepherds sat tenderly watching with care 

Their flocks and their herds, on the hill-side and fold, 

When the angels declared what the prophets fore- 
told ; 

Wise men from the East, who travelled afar, 

Led on by the light of that radiant star ; 

The cherubs descending with pinions unfurled, 

Proclaiming the news to a sin-laden world. 


O, well might the heavens the watchers amaze, 
Beholding such scenes with their wondering gaze ; 
O, well might the sages who worshipping came, 
Fall down on their knees and adoring exclaim — 


CHRISTMAS BELLS. 29 


“ A babe in the manger, the herald was true, 
A Saviour has come every heart to renew: ” 
And Mary His mother awaked from her dream, 
What meekness and love from her countenance beam. 


Afar in the temple, Simeon of old 

Brought incense of myrrh in rich censers of gold, 

Sublime were his words while saluting the Son — 

O, let me depart, our salvation is won. 

Sweet bells, ye are playing melodious chime, 

What raptures to raise in this bosom of mine, 

As all those bright pictures in joy seem to rise, 

While ringing your anthems this eve through the 
skies. 


A DREAM. 


DREAMED an angel band stood round my bed, 
And from a gold-bound book they sweetly read, — 
‘‘ What if some cavern in the womb of earth, 
Where mortal man ne’er entered since his birth, 
Should ope its portals to your enraptured sight, 
And fill your soul with its effulgent light, 
And waves of music, whose swell sublime 
Burst on your ear its echoes all divine ; 
And blooming plants, whose fragrance fill the air, 
Were with the laurel twined by spirits there, 
To deck the brows of every child of earth, 
Who ventured to explore its mines of worth ; 
If every stone that gemmed the vault above, 
Should be a key to move your hearts to love — 
Would not this pay you for all your toil 
In search of riches o’er the midnight oil, 
To find a cave like this so richly stored 
With music, gems, sweet flowers, and light adored ? 


“Then come, thou sorrowing child of earth, 
Prepare for the Saviour’s fold, 

And read this book we brought for thee, 
It is written in letters of gold. 


A DREAM. 31 


“To this gorgeous cave in the earth it will guide, 
O, haste thee, its riches to see ; 
Your Father and Saviour there sit side by side, 
Their arms are extended to thee.” 


LINES 


SUGGESTED ON READING THE SUDDEN DEATH OF 
MISS P. ASP 


OURN not for your loved ‘one, 
Her spirit will live ; 

Not the gem but the casket 

To earth you must give — 
Ere the rose-leaves had faded 

From her spirit’s young dream ; 
Her virtues, so spotless, 

In Heaven will beam. 


Weep not for your loved one, 
She’s gone to her rest ; 
Lay flowers, sweet flowers, 
On her innocent breast ; 
For seraphs are keeping 
Their watch o’er her now — 
I see their smiles playing 
On her sinless young brow. 


And you, stricken school-mates, 
While bending in prayer, 

Though her presence has left you, 
Her spirit’s still there ; 


ON THE DEATH OF MISS P. A. P. 


Her voice, though, no more 

Shall be blended with thine, — 
Prepare now to meet her, 

For you know not the time. 


Weep not for your loved one, 
You’ll soon meet again ; 
She passed through the vale 
Without sorrow or pain: 
Then lift up your voices, 
Bend not to the blow, 
The Saviour can heal 
All your bleeding hearts now. 


3 


ao 


WITH A MOSS-WREATH. 


~*USTOM has her forms and uses, 
Courtesies, too, all admire ; 
But cold etiquette abuses, 
Ofttimes chills each pure desire. 


Lady, here in greenwood bowers, 
While the song-bird sang to me, 

Gilding all the summer hours, 
With the sweetest melody, — 

Here, in arbors by the mountain, 
Where the merry streamlets play, 
From each shady brook and fountain, 

I have gathered by the way 


Mosses exquisite, outvying 
Garden gems of varied hue, — 
Not like them their richness dying, — 
Wove them in a wreath for you; 
You, with every grace beguiling 
Grief and pain, a vestal where 
Poverty and want are calling, 
Answering the orphan’s prayer. 


‘ 


WITH A MOSS-WREA TH. 


For its unpretending beauty, 
Gentle lady, you will prize ; 

Trifles cheer the path of duty, 
Often in them magic lies ; 

Nature with her quiet teaching 
Offers her perpetual balm, 

To our hearts alway beseeching 
All to sing their simple psalm. 


Lady, pardon; may the pleasure 
Which it gave me while I wove 
Be imparted in full measure 
From this quiet, lovely grove ; 
Go, fair wreath, to halls of splendor, 
From a donor’s hand unknown ; 
If a smile of love you render, 
Then your power I’ll joy to own. 


You may deck some wall or statue 
With your amaranthine bloom ; 
Or perchance, alas, in sorrow 
Laid upon some loved one’s tomb: 
Now adieu to stream and mountain, 
Song and bird and greenwood bower ; 
Rock and wreath and gushing fountain 
All must own your thrilling power. 


REMEMBER THEE. 


Re thee! yes, while its life blood shall 
flow . 


5) 


Or its beatings be felt, for thee alway shall glow 
This heart, which is thine, ever thine, through the 


gloom, 
And the sunshine, perchance, which thy path may il- 
lume! 


The thick clouds that gather, the lightnings that play 
Above and around thee, in their fearful way, 

Shall harm thee no more, for guarded thou art 

From the malice of earth, and her venomous dart. 


In robes that are spotless, bedazzling with white, 
Is mantled thy spirit, and it fears not the light, 
And whatever betide thee, still sweetly shall shine 
The sunlight of virtue, which may ever be thine. 


Remember thee! yes, while memory shall cherish 

A thought that is holy, or a wish that is pure! 

Thy name and thy image! they only shall perish, 

When the heart that enshrines them shall cease to en- 
dure ! 


TO THE CUBANS, UPON THE DEATH OF 
DR. KANE. 


LAS, we’ve read with grief the mournful story! 
How truly touching is the record here 
Of him who won the spotless wreath of glory, 
Now resting calmly on the solemn bier. 
With cypress boughs our stars and stripes they 
blended, 
To robe his form and deck his funeral car ; 
They bowed their hearts, nor felt they condescended 
While paying homage to our nation’s star. 
Ye noble sons, who watched his dying pillow 
Until the brittle thread of life was riven, 
Who watched the wave, the overwhelming billow 
That bore his spirit up to yon bright heaven, 
To you, who dwelt in that sweet isle of flowers, 
Springing spontaneously from the virgin sod, 
Where golden fruits bedeck the perfumed bowers 
And all things whisper of a loving God, — 
To you we’d sing ; to you our songs are flowing, 
For all appeals to which you did respond ; 
Now friendship’s rays we’ll keep united, glowing, — 
"Twill cheer our pathway to the world beyond ; 
To you, most gracious Ecarrvaria, guiding 
The reins of power how wisely and how well, 
May loving hearts, ’neath your soft skies residing, 
Embalm your deeds, and Spain’s fair history tell. 


ON WITNESSING THE FUNERAL OF THE 
LATE JONAS CHICKERING. 


HAT solemn funeral train is this, 
With muffled notes of woe? 
Ye mourners, lift your heads and kiss 
The rod that caused the blow. 


The gifts of music all divine, 
To him so largely given, 
And gifts of charity sublime, 
Will echo back to heaven. 


He finished well his course in life, 
He dried the orphans’ tears, — 

"Tis fitting now that they should cast 
Sweet flowers around his bier. 


Weep not, New England, for thy son, 
Who for the tomb is drest, — 

He fought the fight, the crown he’s won, 
And wears it with the blest. 


TO A BIRD ON ASH-WEDNESDAY. 


HENCE comest thou, sweet warbler, 
This glorious spring-like morn? 

From unknown worlds afar 

With all this gush of song? 
Such floods of heavenly melody 

Across my soul you pour, 
It touches, as it floats along, 

Chords never touched before. 


Who sent thee, tiny messenger ? 
What tribe do you belong? 
Is this your morning sacrifice? 
Is this your Lenten song? 
O, for the gift of language now, 
Some name I never heard, 
To call these notes, whose richest flow 
These slumbering feelings stirred. 


If I could burst these earthly bars, 
With all my waywardness forgiven, 

I’d soar with thee beyond the stars, 
New glories see in yon bright heaven. 

Thrice welcome on this morn of Lent, 
We'll hail with thee its birth ; 

Farewell, I know that thot wast sent, 
To sanctify the earth. 


LAKE COTTAGE, MELROSE. 


FEBRUARY 22, 1854. 


EAR M , I wish that you could see 
This blooming, blushing rose, 

And feel the same delightful thrill 

That through my frame-work glows. 
I’m sure it came from paradise — 

’Twas fashioned by His hand ; 
He told some of the angel ones 

To strew them o’er the land. 





Each petal bears a mystery — 
A magnet in its heart ; 
For I am drawn unconsciously, 
And tears, unbidden, start ; 
I ne’er could ask a richer gift 
To cheer my winter-wearied eyes, — 
The gems of ice and snowy drift 
Contrasting with its crimson dyes. 


It burst from out the dark green leaves, 
That deck my flower-stand, 

And lifts its queenly head above 
The pink and lily bland. 


LAKE COTTAGE, MELROSE. 


I thought ’twould ope a week ago, 
And placed it in the sun ; 

But then I found it would not blow 
Till the birth of Washington. 


Then when I’m sad and sick at heart, 
O bring to me a rose ; 
Sweet consolation it imparts, 
And rich perfume bestows. 
Thrice welcome are you, beauteous flower, 
To cheer our home on this great day ; 
So emblematic of our power — 
Bud, blossom, then decay. 


TO MY ABSENT HUSBAND. 


Y home — how desolate to-night 
The parlor and the hall! 
Alas! I do believe my heart 
More desolate than all ; 
For everything I try to do 
Seems useless, just like play, 
And everything perplexes, too, 
When, dearest, you’re away. 


The neighbors call; I smile and talk, 
And while away the hours, 

And sometimes, too, I listless walk 
Alone amid the flowers ; 

I take my work and try to sew, 
But as I said before, 

Tis all in vain, for you must know 
I miss you more and more. 


Last night in dreams I gathered flowers, 


And bound them for your sake ; 


The world seemed like Elysian bowers — 


How dreadful to awake, 


TO MY ABSENT HUSBAND. 


And mope through a long autumn day ; 
A blank you know I call 

The time I spend when you’re away, 
And this is not quite all: 


There’s no one calls me beautiful, 
My mirror’s silent, too ; 

How strange this great discovery 
Should have been made by you! 

Excuse me, dearest, if I doubt 
Your taste so very pure ; 

The beautiful I can’t find out — 
’*Tis very strange, I’m sure. 


The world is full of mystery, 
And O! this love is one; 

Its strange and wondrous history 
Is scarcely yet begun. 

All that we love is beautiful, 
Experience teaches this ; 


The simplest thing sometimes has caused 


Me ecstasy of bliss. 


Now as I wander round, and view 
Each gift, however small 

Or trifling, if twas brought by you, 
What joy does it recall! 

And every tender word and tone, 
Which did my bosom thrill 

Long years ago, now I’m alone, 
They make me happy still. 


43 


44 


TO MY ABSENT HUSBAND. 


For with a generous heart and hand 
The fairest gifts you strew 

Around my home, from sea and land — 
What more can mortal do? 

It always makes me feel that I 
Can never half repay 

The many kindnesses, my love, 
You scatter o’er my way. 


How many hours of happiness 
There are in this brief life, 

To those who truly realize 
The sacred name of wife ! 

Now, dearest, you will smile to see 

_ ve tried to poetize ; 

When you return, our home will be 
An earthly paradise. 


IN EARLY SPRING. 


WONDER who sent me these beautiful flowers ! 
O I wonder who was so kind 
As to try and beguile these wearisome hours, 
To banish all care from my mind. 


Each floweret seems melting, aye melting in dew ; 
Of beauty, of fragrance so pure, 

So exquisite are they, so lovely to view, 
Wert sent by an angel, I’m sure. 


How tender the blush on each petal, how rare, 
How glossy these leaflets so green ; 

What is there so beautiful that will compare? 
Yet nothing like them have I seen. 


The first that adorns the wild wood and field, 
Sweet treasures, the first of the spring ; 

Where, where, are the stores of fragrance concealed 
Which gratefully round me they fling? 


They quietly came by a bearer unknown, 
So carefully clustered, behold! 

A spell of enchantment around them is thrown, 
A charm that can never be told. 


46 IN EARLY SPRING. 


O where did they blossom, I long so to know, 
To know who so kindly did send ; 

My heart with pure gratitude sure would o’erflow 
To so thoughtful and generous a friend. 


AN EVENING IN JULY. 


RIGHT stream! on your soft banks to-night, 


Moonbeams fall on leaf and bower, — 
Glimmering stars, with holy light, 
Melt in your bosom this Eden hour ; 
Fragrant lilies, so white and pure, 
Springing from depths unseen below, — 
These quiet scenes my soul allure 
To realms whence all these blessings flow. 


The fire-flies flitting through the air, 
Like golden butterflies from heaven, — 
Sky, stream, and earth new glories wear, 
This beautiful midsummer even. 
The quivering of the aspen-tree, 
In clouds of silvery shadow drest, — 
Gushing thoughts are struggling to be free, 
And flit away to dream-lands of the blest. 


AFTER-THOUGHITS. ‘ 


THANK the gentle friend who calls 
On me to pass an hour; 
An unexpected courtesy 
Has over me such power — 
Especially when my sad heart 
Is very ill at ease ; 
A friendly call at any time 
Can never fail to please. 


I thank them ; if induced to come, 
Their plea it matters not ; 

To feel you have remembrance won 
Will cheer the hardest lot ; 

Aye, even with a soft rebuke, 
For strange remarks I’ve made, 

I’ll love the more if they will try 
But gently to dissuade. 


Great mirthfulness I fancy too ; 
Such as was given me 

Is very hard oft to subdue 
When wrought to high degree ; 


' AFTER-THOUGHTS. 49 


Comparisons continually 
I seem inclined to draw, 

As though perfection all were mine, — 
In me no sin or flaw. 

My greatest fault, my vanity 
To think such one my friend ; 

A strangeness, like insanity, 
The first thing I offend ; 

But when by look, by word, or deed. 
An injury I have done, 

I quickly will their pardon plead 
Until forgiveness won. 


Few weave reproach with tact or skill 
Through graceful /é¢e-d-téte ; 

An arrow gemmed with flowers will 
Wound deep at any rate; 

You know the wound will sooner heal 
If rightly balm’s applied ; 

Its soothing influence you feel, 
This cannot be denied. 


I know there are but very few 
Who will my shafts repel ; 
With bitterness they don’t imbue 
Before they run and tell ; 
Most true, they seldony hesitate 
To render back my due — 
However small the debt, or great, 
Return with interest too. 
4 












AB fon Christian ey a Ste 
No saving grace have I; Fall aie 
‘Myself, a huge disparity, — tes a ae 
I cannot justify : OPE Sia 
How much I'll thank them if they'll 
My coming short to tell = 
To me; and I will love them all, 
-How much, a cannot tell. 







ON LEAVING ST. JOHN’S CHURCH, 
CHARLESTOWN. 


OT meet again! what, never, never more 
To fill this seat, or hear this solemn strain? 
How sadly beautiful! It seems to pour 
A dirge-like music on my heart and brain. 


No more to hear their gentle footsteps tread, 

Fair worshippers, through this dim-lighted aisle, 
Casting their burdens upon Him who bled 

And died for us, —in whom was found no guile. 


No more to hear the sweet response or prayer, 
Or kneel with them around the chancel rail, 
Where we in our unworthiness repair 
To ask for strength, our sinfulness bewail. 


The last farewell this morn we come to hear — 
From Christ’s ambassador a parting word ; 
How many mournful memories appear, 
How many hearts by sympathy are stirred. 


Close as the tendrils of the vine that clings 
And grows in beauty o’er thy sacred walls, — 
So twine our hearts, until our spirit wings 
Its way celestial where no care inthralls. 







Pe 52 ON LEAVING ST. JOHN'S CHURCH, a 
A pensive silence TEIBDS) an awful gloom 
_ Appears to hover o’er each drooping head ; a 
Is this a shadow of our final doom, x 


When the last record shall by Him be read? Es aa 
a 


Sonlt may be so; O let us now pienares ae ie 

: And heed ihe impressive warning given, 
That we at last the righteous crown may wear, — 

And live forever with the blest in heaven. — a 


BOSMY LITTLE SON ON HIS TWELFTH 
BIRTHDAY. 


OW like a dream it is, since I 
First took thee from thy Maker’s hands, 
A tiny babe so beautiful, 
More precious, too, than golden sands. 


’Twas on that holy winter’s morn 
We celebrate the Saviour’s birth, 
That you, with beauteous face and form, 
Sent quiet gladness round our hearth. 


I then shed tears of joy, and pain, 
To think a gift so rich was given 

For me to love, and then, again, 
To mould it fit for heaven. 


I’ve watched thy budding mind unfold, 
As opes the petal of the flower, — 

A gem that in the casket glowed, 
Warmed into life by love’s sweet power. 


54 


TO MY LITTLE SCR. 


Then when the crushing blow came down 
That withered every ray of hope, 

I met alone the cold world’s frown, 
Drank to the dregs that bitter cup. 


Before the tempest passed away, 

Or hushed the tumult of my bosom wild, 
How fervently I tried to pray, 

That God would be a father to my child. 


‘My orphaned ones I trembling led 
Unto the Gate of Heaven, 

To dedicate them to my God, 
On a calm, bright Sabbath even. 


You side by side before the altar stood, 

The mystic waters sprinkled on your brow ; 
‘I rested then upon the promised word 

That He would keep and bless my darlings now. | 


Many years since then have fled 
On the swift-winged messenger away, 
And daring deeds, I fear may lead 
Your pure young thoughts astray. 


But if a mother’s prayers can keep 
Thee safe from sin and harm, 
I’d bend the knee, I’d give my life, 
To shield thee from the cold world’s frown. 


LINES TO SHARON SPRINGS. 


AIR Sharon! do your mountain arms contain 
Room for another child who longs for thee? 
And is there still an antidote for pain 
In your clear streams? And are they gushing free 
For all the feeble wanderers of the earth 
Who choose to come and try their healing power? 
And wasting forms who know their fame and worth, — 
Do they still gather round them every hour? 


If so, receive me; for I fain would lay 
My weary head upon your soothing breast ; 
Your gurgling waters now may charm away, 
Or lull my ills and sorrows all to rest ; 
Your scenes again how much I’d joy to greet — 
There list to nature’s voice forever new, 
Your birds and bees, that sip the nectar sweet 
From blooming fields and echoing forests too. 


Can health-imbuing breezes fan your brow, 
So sheltered by rich canopies of green? 

Methinks I see your wooded windings now, 
And vein-like paths, where vistas intervene. 


56 LINES TO SHARON SPRINGS. 


As on I pass through copse or silver grove, 
I pause to see the merry children play ; 

With beaming looks of pleasure, hope, and love, 
They find no thorns to mar their flowery way. 


I see, upon some rustic bench reclined, 
A city belle, with languid face and eye; 
Around her brow a rosy wreath is twined, 
But still I hear the deep-drawn, heavy sigh. 
Now I will wander where the Indians roam — 
At least, my spirit seems to guide me there — 
Who pitch their tent beneath the leafy dome 
Planted by Him, and reared, too, by His care. 


Was this their home before the pale-face came 
And drove their fathers to the spirit-land? 
Are these primeval trees the very same 
Which sheltered them, where now our dwellings stand ? 
Look yonder, there the dark-browed Indian goes, 
And maiden, too, with sunshine in her hair — 
She with her ’broidered baskets, he with bows ; 
Alas! how few are here for them to care. 


Their wigwams dot no more these glens or hills, 
The camp-fire’s blaze will never more be seen ; 

Were ye their mourners, ye cascades and rills, 
Rippling along through gorge and dark ravine? 

And will our dream, like theirs, so soon be o’er, 
Your paths, fair Sharon, be by others trod? 

What matter, if we reach the heavenly shore, 
And rest upon the bosom of our God? 


TO THE SENIOR WARDEN OF ST. JOHN’S 
CHURCH, CHARLESTOWN. 


| read how men were crowned, in ancient story, 
For noble deeds which they in love had done, 
Who never sought for worldly wealth or glory, 

Nor heeded laurels which they richly won ; 
But ever in their quiet path of duty 

With chastened passions they pursued their way, 
Transcending all in piety and beauty, — 

To such as these would I a tribute pay. 


While balmy zephyrs floated round my dwelling 
In early spring, when woods and fields rejoice, 
While bright-winged messengers their songs were swell- 
ing 
To cheer us wanderers, I heard a voice ; 
In low, soft strains, upon my ear at even 
It came, as ever comes news of the free; 
It told a pathway to the Gate of Heaven 
Was opened wide by princely gifts from thee. 


And then before the gorgeous hues were dying, 
Which then so sweetly decked our garden bower, 
Before the melancholy winds were sighing, 
You, never wearying, crowned the tower ; 


58 10 THE SENIOR: WARDEN, EI. 


Now far and wide its mellow tones are wafted, 
How rich the music of the Sabbath bell! 

O may its warning ever be ingrafted 
Upon our hearts, while here on earth we dwell. 


May heavenly wisdom imbue the pastor, 
Whoever it may be your lot to bring ; 
Pure and holy like our Lord and Master, 
Forever more His praises here to sing ; 
While we, who bow and worship at the altar 
In this our church, with teachings so sublime, 
While we respond to Liturgy and Psalter, 
We'll ask his blessing upon thee and thine. 





THOUGHTS 


SUGGESTED AT AN ORDINATION AT THE CHURCH OF THE 
MESSIAH, BOSTON, SEPTEMBER 25, 1856. 


ITHIN this temple we have come to-day, 
Where we, O Father, have so often come, 
Striving thy precepts ever to obey 
And ask a blessing on thy chosen son ; 
The air seems purer as these aisles we tread, 
The autumn sun streams through the tinted panes, 
The sacred elements are duly spread, 
Emblems of love to wash away our stains. 


Ambassadors of Christ, white-robed, they kneel 
Within the chancel, —’tis a solemn sight, 
Their hearts imbued with holy, heavenly zeal, 

Here to perform the Apostolic rite: 
Do angels hover o’er that youthful one, 
Who now alone before the altar stands? 
Exalted life, the ministry begun, 
He calmly waits the laying on of hands. 


O vanish, all ye vapory cloudlets ; roll, 
Roll far away, ye mists, before his gaze ; 

Shine, fires of Heaven, and illume his soul, 
Impart to him your everlasting rays. 


60 THOUGHTS AT AN ORDINATION. 


The time has come, the charge and sermon o’er, 

_ Our saintly bishop sitting in the chair, — 
Rising, beseeching all their hearts to pour, 

And occupy a space in silent prayer. 


Invested now with righteousness and power, 
Go forth, and teach poor sinners how to pray ; 
Go soothe the stricken in affliction’s hour, 
To happy realms above, O point the way ; 
Then at the Judgment, when the scroll is read, 
May these blest words fall gently on your ear: 
“'You’ve clothed the naked, and the hungry fed, 
Now with your flock, my chosen one, draw near.” 


LINES 


AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO MRS. E. P. 


ENTLE lady, art thou singing 
Touching songs of love to-night, 
Ever soothing, ever flinging 
All around me hues of light? 
Light of hope and beauty blended, 
Light of joy and sadness too, — 
Melody has never ended, 
Since my ear first bowed to you. 


Gentle lady, you may wonder, 
Why I wish to list again 
To those tones which seem to sunder 
Ties of earth. O I would fain, 
Still on wings of fancy soaring, 
Yield my heart, my ear, my eye, 
To your voice, your gift adoring, 
Yes, adoring till I die. 


Gentle lady, you are holding 
Mystic keys to thrill the soul, 

Finer hues of thought unfolding, 
Charming me beyond control ; 


62 


LINES INSCRIBED TO MRS. Z.f, 


Sacred chords, ah, who can fathom, 
Who can tell the depth of bliss 

Planted in the human bosom ?— 
Speak who can, and tell me this. 


Gentle lady, precious flowers 
That are blooming round your heart, 
Guide them to those heavenly bowers, 
Teach them well to act their part ; 
When you tell the evening story, 
How the Saviour them will bless, 
If you sing His praise and glory, 
He will surely them caress. 


Gentle lady, may sweet slumbers, 
Soothe your angel form to-night, 
Blessings, in harmonious numbers, 
Greet you with the morning light ; 
Light of hope and beauty blended, 
Light of joy and pleasure, too, — 
Melody has never ended, 
Since my ear first bowed to you. 


LINES 


SUGGESTED AT THE FUNERAL OF A LOVELY CHILD, AT 


ST. JOHN’S CHURCH, CHARLESTOWN, NOVEMBER 20, 
1856. 


OVELY little Fannie, 
How can I gaze to-day 
Upon thy precious form 
Of most exquisite clay? 
I did not think, when last 
I pressed thy tiny hand, 
That you would soar so soon, 
Up to the spirit-land. 


List! to the startling bell, 

And O! its lengthened peal ; 
Is this a funeral knell 

Which on my ear doth steal? 
Suggestive is the chime 

To pilgrims here below, 
How touching, how sublime 

It speaks, we too must go. 


Loving hands have robed 
Thy fragile form with care ;] 
Upon a gem so beautiful, 
To gaze, I hardly dare. 


LINES AT THE FUNERAL OF A CHI, 


How like the beauteous flower, 
Culled from the laden bough 
At morning’s rosy hour, 
Thou seemest to me now. 


Just ten short years ago 
They to the altar came, - 
Where mystic waters flow, 
For thy baptismal name ; 
And there they bowed and prayed 
Thy nature to renew, 
Now in the casket laid 
Shrined as the crystal dew. 


The solemn dirge is sung, 
The sacred service o’er ; 
And ye, whose hearts are wrung, 
May blessings on you pour. 
Look up and kiss the chastening rod — 
Why weep when thou hast given 
A cherub unto God, 
An angel unto heaven? 


IMPROMPTU. 


ERE I a gay lover, sweet Eveline dear, 

I’d press to my lips this pattern cashmere ; 
The warp, and the wool, and the color combined, 
Were blown ’cross the lake by the cold winter wind ; 
There, bathed by the moonlight’s soft ray alone, 
’Twas found ; but O where had the nightingale flown? 
A part of the plumage, truly how dear — 
They said it was simply a piece of cashmere: 
How rudely ’twas torn, it grieved me to see ; 
V’ll return it, bright angel, with kisses to thee. 


5 


A LOVE-DREAM. 


ONG before the star of morning 

Had dissolved in ether blue, 
I arose to watch the dawning 
Which my sleeping fancy drew ; 
Like the star of love, ’twas beaming 
All around, below, above — 
All the glorious world was teeming 
With the richness of His love. 
I had hoped to paint the feelings 
Which my dream-wrapt spirit found, 
Sweetest of the soul’s revealings, 
But those depths we cannot sound ; 
Waking, all the hues will vanish, 
Evanescing while we dream ; 
Strive we may the world to banish, 
Yet how dim the colors seem. 
Dreamed I of a friend so loving, 
Waited on his every word, 
Till his voice, so rich, beguiling, 
All my inmost being stirred ; 
Well I knew by intuition 
All his wishes unexpressed, 
Languished for the full fruition 
Of his love, to be caressed. 


A LOVE-DREAM. 


On a couch of flowers reclining 
We together talked of bliss, 

Ne’er resisting, ne’er declining ; 
Then, O then, the rapturous kiss ; 
Then he pressed me to his bosom, 
Throbbing with the glowing charm, 
- There I rested, dumb, bewildered, 
Faint with bliss upon his arm. 


67 


HOURS OF BLISS. 


OORS of bliss still brightly o’er me beaming, 
When heart and pulse had almost ceased to 
beat ; 
A glimpse of Eden, or was I dreaming, 
Dreaming of love and all its raptures sweet? 


Hours of bliss, in rainbow beauty glowing, 
Flooding my soul with all their pristine dyes, 

When tender words, like music gushing, flowing, 
Embalmed mine ear, and banished all my sighs. 


Hours of bliss —as brilliant meteors glancing 
Through clouds that darken the wanderer’s sky, 

Like sparkling foam upon blue wavelets dancing, 
Are these bright hours that quickly hurry by. 


Hours of bliss, bright gems so evanescing, 
O ye are pure, unmixed with sin’s alloy ; 
Vain are attempts to catch the fleeting blessing 
Escaping from us whilst we most enjoy. 


Hours of bliss, deep gulfs of holy feeling, — 
What language sweet can fathom the abyss? 
Thought meeting thought, mysterious appealing — 

I ask no more, no more of life than this. 


HOURS OF BLISS. 


This is enough; ’tis all of woman’s glory, 
Beginning and ending of her life on earth, 

To love and be loved; here transitory, 
Made everlasting at her heavenly birth. 


69 


AN APPEAL FOR MELROSE. 


HERE wild flowers grow and forest trees are 
waving 

Their perfumed boughs so sweet and ever green, 
Where gurgling brooks their mossy banks are laving, 

And song-birds build ’neath every leafy screen, 
Fain would we rear— O listen to our story, 

All ye who feel immortal longings now, 
All ye who hope to reign with Him in glory, 

And wear the crown of light upon your brow — 


Fain would we rear a temple for the weary, 

Who’ve travelled far, borne down by grief and care, 
Who’ve dragged their chains through wildernesses dreary, 
That they may find new life, new light in prayer ; 
That they may tread where thorns no more are growing, 

To rend their bosoms and disturb their rest, 
And drink instruction from those founts o’erflowing, 
At last in robes of righteousness be dressed. 


In vales of beauty still our flocks are feeding, 
And herds are grazing round our lofty hills, 

And sylvan scenes continually are pleading, 
Exalting thought above life’s coming ills. 


AN APPEAL FOR MELROSE. 


Come, gaze with us on pleasant landscapes sloping 
To lakes reflecting all the heavenly dyes, 

Pluck from their bosoms the sweet lily drooping, 
The fairest flower that blooms beneath the skies. 


But then we cannot always dream and ponder 
On rural joys, or dwell in earthly bowers ; 
Alas, through shades of doubt and sin we wander, 
Treading the mazes of desponding hours. 
’*Tis then we pause to glance on something higher, 
Something beyond this narrow vale of tears ; 
We feel the spirit cheer each pure desire 
As the dread view of the last day appears. 


The sun’s bright rays how many spires are gilding, 
Shedding its beams on all the belfry towers ; 
Will you respond, who palace homes are building, 
That soon its glorious light may fall on ours? 
Fain would we ask of you, whom God has given 

Treasure on earth— we beg you to bestow ; 
If earnestly you seek the throne in heaven 
Let not this meek appeal unheeded go. 


71 


TO THE SHIP NORTHERN EMPIRE. 


UEENLY ship! they tell me thou art sailing 
Far o’er the waters on the mighty deep ; 
That purple shadows thy form are veiling, 
And only stars their constant vigils keep. 
First in thy beauty I saw thee gliding 
Adown the stream from dear Columbia’s shore ; 
Then, alas! the mountain billows riding — 
See storm-clouds threaten, list the ocean’s roar. 


They look, and wonder why no tears are streaming 
For one thou hold’st so very dear to me, 
And say how strange, indifferent seeming, 
Then look in vain some signs of grief to see ; 
On my spirit’s pinion I am flying 3 
Through midnight blackness o’er the rolling wave ; 
Useless to weep, and vainer still is sighing — 
I look to thee, O Father! thou canst save. 


Stay, blustering winds! ye lightnings, cease your flashing ! 
Look up, thou youthful wanderer through the din! 
Nay, start not at the heavy thunder clashing ; 
Look up, and put thy confidence in Him. 


LO THE SHIP NORTHERN EMPIRE. 73 


Stand firm, my boy, with all thy noble daring ; 
Gaze not aloft to see the bending mast ; 

But trust in Him, the great, the ever-caring ; 
He'll help thee safely to outride the blast. 


And time seems but a dream since thou wert given, 
A dimpled babe, pure from thy Maker’s hand ; 
Ah! now I trust in the decree of Heaven 
To guard the same the water as the land. 
Never again, O, never may I wander 
Near thy pillow for the good-night kiss — 
There are themes I do not dare to ponder ; 
One of the tenderest, I’m sure, is this. 


Queenly ship! how many thou art holding, 
Round whom the tendrils of affection cling ; 
How many throbbing hearts are now enfolding 
The loved thou bearest, thou stately thing! 
Changed the happy homes which rang with gladness, 
When children played around their father’s knee ; 
Upon their brows there rests a look of sadness, 
Tinged with the same are all their songs of glee. 


Now, farewell to this unfinished story ; 

Farewell, sweet dreams of happy days by-gone ; 
Sail, fair ship, in all your pride and glory, 

A wreath is waiting when the voyage is done. 
Affection’s wreath shall ever be unbroken ; 

While life remains, we’ll keep it fresh for thee: 
The deepest thought, alas, remains unspoken, 

For those who wander on the dark blue sea. 


MORNING WALK IN JUNE. 


HE fragrance of the fresh-mown hay 
Perfumes the air around to-day ; 
Delicious odors rise ; 
The walnut, pine, and cedar trees, 
Are waving gently in the breeze, 
Beneath the bluest skies. 


The buttercup and clover too, 

Wild flowers of every shade and hue, 
Seem more than ever fair ; 

And I, too, feel the mystic power 

That spangles every leaf and flower, 
That tinged them with such care. 


The hill, that reigns a monarch here, 
Where trees, and rocks, and shrubs appear, 
And golden mosses grow, — 
We clamber up its craggy side, 
Forgetting all that may betide, 
To gaze on scenes below. 


The vales with beauty, joy, abound, | 
With works of loveliness are crowned — 


MORNING WALK IN FUNE. 


Ah! who can paint like this? 
A glimpse of Eden now I view, 
As seen the opening vista through, 

Beyond the steep abyss. 


My eye upon a garden fair 

_ Now rests. To what can I compare 
This rural, charming place? 

What can I of its priestess? say ? — 

O could my pen my thoughts obey, 
To paint her form and face! 


Come, come ye muses, all inspire, 

Come tune this morn my simple lyre, 
That I may sing her praise ; 

O bid your gifted son? of song, 

Who dares unto her race belong, 
His thrilling notes to raise. 


O bid him sing her virtues, skill, 

That might a holy volume fill, 
And faithfully portray 

A life of piety and love; 

Refinement more than all above, 
Her charities display. 


That garden, arched by leaf and vine, 
Fulfills almost my dreams divine, 


1 Madame Norcross. 2 N. P. Willis. 


he 


76 


MORNING WALK IN FUNE. 


So perfect and so grand ; 
The purple grape it forms a part, 
Surpassing all the rules of art, 
Which mid the dews expand. 


The herds are grazing by the stream ; 
Beneath the boughs I catch a gleam, 
And hear the ripples flow. 
The minstrels, too, of air and light, 
From grove to grove they wing their yen 
And songs of praise bestow. 


My heart with love it is imbued 
In this majestic solitude ; 
All nature seems to bless ; 
I find no language to reveal, 
To you, beloved, one half I feel, 
Not half can I express. 


TO DR. PERRY, 
WITH A CLUSTER OF VIOLETS, IN HIS LAST ILLNESS, 


a these sweet violets! will they not soothe 

| thy pain, 

And bring the welcome hues of health back to thy 
cheek again? 

I sought them with this pure desire, so lowly, gemmed 
with dew, 

And hasten, ere their beauty dies, thy lonely couch to 
strew. 

Though unpretending they may seem, ’tis all that I can 
bring ; 

However small the gift, ofttimes it may a magic fling 

Around our hearts, about our paths, wherever we may 
$9; 

And these so simply beautiful, must bear a charm, I 
know. 


When arrested in life’s walks by sudden grief or pain, 

How kindly hast thou ministered till health returned 
again ; 

And now a balm of joy I’d bring to offer in return 

For all thy counsels given me, that I relief might learn. 


78 TO DR. PERRY. 


May these humble flowerets shed around their rich 


perfume, 
Their mystic eloquence pervade thy heart, thy soul il- 


lume ; 

May each loving dream that’s past their presence now 
recall, 

Bid every pulse thrill with delight, till pain no more 
inthrall. | 


Could my sympathy avail, how gratefully I’d pour ; 

In tender offices of love thy feeble strength restore. 

The desolation, agony! alas, I may not tell 

How much is mingled in thy cup—on this I dare not 
dwell : 

But ask of Him who reigns above, a blessing now to 
send, 

To soothe thy anguish, cheer thy heart, thine every ill 
to mend ; | 

May all the friends thou’st ever loved be dearer now 
to see — 

Such lovely coronals of hope as these I bear to thee. 


A LAMENT. 


NOTHER year has sped, 
A year of pain and dread, 
And yet no tidings from my absent one ; 
None yet has come to me 
Across the moaning sea ; 
No word, alas, from him, my wandering son. 


To celebrate his birth 
To-day no joy, no mirth ; 
His name no one will think but me to call, 
Or wonder why I sigh 
When merry ones are nigh; 
They think this day should pleasure bring to all. 


How sweet were then my dreams ; 
But yesterday it seems 
Since first his head was pillowed on my breast ; 
O then I breathed a prayer 
Upon his forehead fair, 
And thought no head was ever half so blest. 


Each ruddy lad I see, 
I think it may be he, 


80 


A LAMENT. 


If near his age, in every walk I take ; 
If dark brown eye and hair, 
I am trying to compare 
Their features —scan till I a likeness make. 


Perchance some gentle hand 
In that bright golden land, 
Which has allured— has tempted scores to stray, 
May kindly lead him right, ; 
May to their homes invite ; 
For this do I, how often, do I pray. 


How much he must be grown ; 
Two years ’tis hard to own, 
And could I own, where should I learn, O where? 
Who’d sympathy bestow 
To lighten this my woe, 
Or counsel me in griefs they cannot share? 


Another year, I may 
Sit then, as now to-day, 
My hopes all crushed, and health may distant be, 
And friends may talk and smile, 
In vain try to beguile ; 
Alas, my boy I never more may see. 


Yet I would not rebel, 
Would not my sorrows tell ; 
’Tis but a leaf torn from the volume great ; 
Many a mother may, 
With longings deep to-day, 
Hope for the news which I myself now wait. 


A LAMENT. 81 


Sighing is all in vain ; 
Great Father! O sustain ! 
I sometimes think I never could bear more ; 
Yet when with Thee I plead, 
How gently dost Thou lead 
Me in sweet paths I never trod before. 
6 


THE DYING BOY TO His MOToEE 


OTHER, it is not hard to die, 
Weep not around my bed, 
For angel bands are hovering nigh, 
To bless you when I’m dead ; 

Can you not see those snowy hands 
Outstretched to bear me home? 
Can you not see those flowery lands, 

Where I in joy shall roam ? 


There are bright temples lined with gold, 
Pillars and domes empearled, 

Where infant spirits ope the gates — 
Types of that glorious world ; 

Within its violet-tinted halls 
Are steps with diamonds laid ; 

And Hope’s fair mantle softly falls 
Round each believing head. 


They tell me that immortal wreaths 
Shall rest upon my brow ; 

Mother, I see their angel forms, 
And hear their voices now. 


THE DYING BOY TO HIS MOTHER. 83 


They'll fan me with their wings of faith — 
With angel care they'll show 

The holy paths of peace and truth, 
And teach me how to go. 


They say that crystal rivulets 
Shall bathe my brow and feet ; 

That throngs of seraph ones shall bend 
A trembling child to greet ; 

That on the borders of those streams 
Rich gems in plenty lie ; 

That all around a radiance beams, — 
O, for this bliss I sigh. 


I see bright birds of rainbow hue, 
Trees with ambrosial fruit ; 

And I shall join heaven’s minstrels, too, 
Yes, I, with song and lute; 

Then, mother dearest, smile again, 
Look up and kiss the rod ; 

I go to rest, all free from pain, 
In Paradise, with God. 


Ops 


OW beautiful, how beautiful 
Is every scene to-day! 
How beautiful are all His works 
In this fair month of May! 
While blossoms blush on hill and plain, 
And song-birds sing their sweet refrain, 
I’d on thine altar lay 


A gift. O, may it bear a charm, 
A cure for every ill! 
Thy Saviour poured the precious balm 
Which these pure leaves distill ; 
Twill satisfy thy longing heart, 
A holy influence impart, 
And all desires fulfill. 


THE BEREAVED MOTHER. 


OTHER, I saw you on that Sabbath morn, 
When the destroyer came and claimed your child ; 
I saw you bending o’er its tiny form, 
While grief was pictured in your accents wild. 


The heart was swelling high, by anguish torn, 
Hot tears were streaming from their fountains fast, 
As long you looked upon that youngest born — 
Affection’s pledge — the dearest and the last. 


And I, too, gazed upon that marble face ; 
So sweet and beautiful in death it seemed, 
That even now my mind can brightly trace 
The angel smile that gently o’er it beamed. 


Scarce had the tear been dried upon thy cheek, 
Or hushed the tumult of thy bosom been, 
Ere death another victim came to seek, 
And bears thy darling boy to worlds unseen. 


Mother, look up and kiss the chastening rod, 
And bow thee in submission to His will ; 

You gave them in the morn of life to God, 
And He will keep them in His bosom still. 


86 THE BEREAVED MOTHER. 


Affection’s tender hand shall bring sweet flowers, 
And strew them o’er the green turf where they rest 
Until you meet again in blissful bowers 
The lost and lovely, ’mid the pure and blest. 


The casket only to the earth you give — 
The worthless covering of a priceless gem ; 
The deathless spirit shall forever live, 
And wear, in brighter worlds, a diadem. 





LINES TO 


WEHT friend, are you lonely? O let me unfold 
My thoughts, while the sun sets in purple and gold ; 
While the oriole warbles her wild evening lay, 
To you a slight tribute I feel I must pay. 
Though sad recollection embitters the hour, 
It may be cheered somewhat by sympathy’s power ; 
E’en while I attempt a communion so dear, 
Your presence seems drawing already quite near. 


If you will allow me, in rhyme I will tell 

Of a drive that we took through the green grove and dell ; 
The sky was so clear, and the trees all in bloom, 
How much I enjoyed — may I tell you with whom? 
You may, perchance, call this a romance of mine, 
And say, if I am to be earnest, ’tis time ; 

But stronger with years grows my love and desire 

To wander ’mid nature, her works to admire. 


And, too, with a loved one to roam by my side, 
To listen while I all my pleasures confide, 

Or, if I am silent, I’m well understood, 

By quite comprehending each varying mood ; 


88 LINES TO ——. 


Such friends are, you know, very scarce ; but a charm 
Is added to life. O, how peaceful and calm 

Would glide, ever glide it so tranquilly on ; 

Not a tear would then flow, not a sigh would be drawn. 


When seated beside such an one—understand — 
We crossed over bridges, and drove to the strand, 
And halted there, near to a rampart of old ; 

The story — how sacred —our history has told ; 
Though reared in good faith it has gone to decay ; 
And where are our fathers who fell? where are they? 
Their period is passed, and their life’s crimson hue 
Has mingled its streams with the bay’s liquid blue. 


We planned for the future, and spoke of the past, 
And wished that the present much longer might last, 
And when interrupted, united above — 

For this was an hour devoted to love. 

The stoics may smile or condemn, if they choose, 
But such a bright hour they would care not to lose ; 
Alas! they are fleeting — such blessings as these, 
They fade like the blossoms that fall from the trees. 


They leave their impressions on heart and on mind, 
But still these impressions are not well defined ; 

We know they have been ; but they passed quick away, 
Like fragrance from flowers which bloom for a day; 
Superior they who can rise above care, 

And revel in beauties the seasons may wear, 

And worship the Being who gave these their birth, 
Diffusing His treasures so rich o’er the earth. 


LINES TO 89 





The ride ; I’ll resume the same subject again, 
Sometime when I feel I can better explain, 

Or paint you the picture in colors so gay, 

You'll fancy you, too, have been with us to-day ; 

Pll show you then where the vine festoons the wall, 
The fairy-like arbors, o’er sweet-brier and all ; 

The beds of blue violets, and buttercups, too, 

Where the morning sun wanders to drink up the dew ; 


And palaces shaded by elm-tree and pine, 

Where gems from our forests and tropics combine 
To lend their enchantment to eye and to heart, 

The grand and the picturesque softened by art. 

I must close. I will seal with the ring that you gave ; 
Its motto I. fear I may fail to engrave 

On you—I ask pardon; it is useless to tell — 
Beloved, I must leave you ; farewell, O, farewell. 


LINES 


AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO MRS. D. W. G., BEFORE 
HER DEPARTURE FOR WASHINGTON. 


ADY, here, where toil and pleasure 
Alternate to pass the day, 
I’ll devote this hour of leisure 
; Singing thee a simple lay. 
Years have passed since our first meeting ; 
Well do I remember how 
Thy voice, so rich, it filled in greeting 
Me, dear lady, then, as now. 


There are touching, aye, entrancing 
Voices, lovely like a spell, 
Charming all the hours, enhancing 
Life wherever we may dwell: 
Thou hast read of halcyon hours, 
Hast thou never lived them there 
In those quiet lovely bowers, 
Blooming with delight so rare? 


Ah! the heart is ever longing, 
Waiting for some coming joy ; 

What though ere the morrow’s dawning, 
Fate may all our dreams destroy: 


LINES INSCRIBED TO MRS. D. W. G. 


All the bliss that mortal ever 
Tasted in this world below, 

All that springs from love and virtue, 
May it still be thine to know. 


Fate is now our walks dividing, 
On this transitory sphere ; 
Yet within this love abiding, 
May we be to each as dear ; 
May the paths to elevation, 
Both of honor and of fame, 
In the history of our nation, 
Bear for years a spotless name. 


This is truly humble music — 
Fail it may to reach the heart ; 


Though my muse prove light and fickle, 


Deem not me a counterpart ; 
Long as my sad heart retaineth 

Memories pure and wishes rare, 
Long as hope and love remaineth, 

Look, dear lady, for a share. 


Gt 


INVITATION TO CONFIRMATION. 


O you seek the way eternal, — 
Strive you now to comprehend ; 
To those blest abodes supernal 
Do your youthful spirits tend? 
Do not quench the holy feeling 
Prompting ever to inquire ; 
Go, and at His footstool kneeling, 
Kindle every pure desire. 


Care not if the world should wonder, 
Earnestly the way pursue ; 
Take the Book of Books and ponder 
Till your hearts are born anew ; 
With its mysteries do not cavil, 
Say not heaven is far away, 
God, your Father, will unravel, 
If you'll follow and obey. 


Faith is what your soul is needing, 
Earnest faith He will receive ; 
See the cross, the Saviour bleeding, 
Can you say, I can’t believe? 


INVITATION TO CONFIRMATION. — 93 


Do not ask the hidden meaning 
Of the Bible ; none can know ; 
Pray, and then His mercy streaming 
All along your path shall flow. 


The Saviour’s love you are denying 
Every moment that you wait ; 
His ambassadors defying, 
All their teachings you berate ; 
You were born for something higher, 
Heaven should be your destined aim ; 
Kindle now the sacred fire, 
Glorify your Maker’s name. 


Then the dark clouds soon will vanish, 
Which are hanging round your brow; 
You’ll be given strength to banish 
Sin, if you will take the vow. 
While your hearts with hopes are beaming, 
While your minds from care are free, 
Taste the cup, with love o’erflowing, 
Which the Saviour offers thee. 


MY HOME. 


AY I describe to you this bright midsummer 
even, 
My sad, sweet friend, a picture of my home? 
May I beguile your thoughts to this, my earthly Eden, 





Where sometime hence I trust your feet may roam? 


Nature, around these hills, is famed but for its wildness ; 
Above the village, west, our cottage brown ; 
We are charmed with birds, and winds of unsung 
mildness, 
Where rocks and steeps wear a perpetual frown. 


But smiling skies o’erhead, and laughing brooklets wan- 
der, 
Lending their magic to subdue the scene ; 
And vales below, wrapped in a mist so tender, 
Viewed through the vistas of the evergreen ; 
An influence soft, a quiet, holy feeling 
Comes o’er my heart when I each picture view ; 
A sympathy to every sense appealing ; 
Would I could sketch them as they seem, for you. 


As you ascend behold, if I am not mistaken, 
A villa, French, I think that is the style; 

Emotions grand my home will not awaken, 
Though loved by me, a most discordant pile ; 


MY HOME. 95 


For destiny and my strange fate debarring 
My choice in simple matters of this kind, 
Discord continually our happiness is marring ; 

A perfect home I do not seek to find. 


If you will enter now, my family composing, 
See three in number over whom I care, 
My broken wing beneath as trustingly reposing, 
Three precious ones with faces all so fair ; 
Death came so terrible, affrighting ever 
To these, and drove them to my mountain nest ; 
Here to remain, I hope, until the same shall sever, 
Till they again shall meet ‘the loved and blest ; 


Till they again shall meet their father and their mother, 
So rudely torn from their soft warm embrace ; 
Poor children, here to find no friend, no other 
To whom to cling, to find no resting-place, 
To lean on me, their tender wants confiding, 
And I so frail; but then I do resign 
Them all to Him, and in His love abiding 
To watch and guard them with His care divine. 


A general harmony pervades our humble dwelling, 
A discord seldom comes to jar the ear ; 

*Mid daily duties, often though repelling, 
The sun is seldom ever clouded here ; 

Sickness and sorrow, with their touch so blighting, 
Within our circle only I have known ; 

Those to suppress I constantly am fighting, 
I wonder now how I should dare to own. 


96 MY HOME. 


And greater charms, if here you ever wander, 
Perchance in nature, and perchance in art, 
That may induce, invite you long to ponder 
And outline this, and too, the smaller part ; 
And now, sweet friend, your patience I am trying, 
With this imperfect — what I hoped to do 
Unfinished ; ah! my fancy’s colors dying 
Ere I had blended, blended them for you. 


* 5 
ae 


LINES 


ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF WASHINGTON’S. BIRTHDAY, 
1858. 


WAKE from slumber, greet the day begun, 
The natal day of our great Washington ; 
Unfurl your banners ; let the deep-toned bell 
Resound aloud, the welcome day to tell. 


First, low on bended knee thanksgivings pour, 

And praises mingle with the cannon’s roar ; 

Give psalms to Him, and choirs your anthems sing, 
Throughout the land let pure hosannas ring ; 


Let Everett's matchless eloquence now flow, 
Portraying virtues which the world should know ; 
Himself a star to light the coming age, 

To show how lived and died our country’s sage. 


He for Mt. Vernon, —O that hallowed ground 
Where sleeps the hero of our theme profound, — 
Our hero’s radiant name will he embalm, 
Steadfast in faith which nothing could disarm. 

7 


98 LINES ON WASHINGTON’S BIRTHDAY. 


Ye lofty hills and mountains towering high, 
With snowy crowns half dipped in azure dye, 
Proclaim his deeds with your majestic power, 
Till hearts indifferent wake to hail the hour. 


Bright sun so glorious, with your melting beams 
Dissolve the fetters of yon silvery streams ; 
Warm into music every rippling wave, 

To join our chorus for the good and brave. 


Pause now, and pluck from memory’s wreath a flower 
Of hue perennial, from affection’s bower 
Let balmy breezes waft a sweet perfume 
Around that sacred and that holy tomb. 


WITH A WREATH, ON THE DEATH OF A 
VALUED FRIEND, P. W. 


OULD I weave a wreath of fadeless flowers 
Of amaranthine hue, | 
Could I cull sweet flowers from Eden’s bowers 
All wet with fragrant dew, 
I would bring them now to deck his bier, 
I’d crown him for the grave ; 
Who thought to him that death was near, 
The generous, the brave? 


How suddenly the dreadful summons came, 
I tremble while I think ; 

But then our loss is his eternal gain 
And we are on the brink. 

Alas! alas! I may not finish this, 
This chaplet of flowers, 

Before a message from the realms of bliss 
May bear me to its bowers. 


This is a simple offering sure, 
But what more can I bring? 

It is a tribute of affection pure, 
An humble offering. 


Stine patti he neany lite Ss simgles 
No fe) farewell word was said; a 





RESURRECTION FLOWER. 


ROM a sainted maiden, 
From her bosom cold, 
Came this lovely blossom 
Which I now behold ; 
Shrouded long in mystery 
Did its beauty glow, 
Round the princely maiden 
Centuries ago. 


Egypt’s fairest daughter — 
Sure an angel’s hand 

Led her ’cross the water 
To the spirit-land ; 

Loving hands and gentle 
Embalmed her for the tomb, 

Bade its germ to bourgeon, 
In ages after bloom. 


Could the loved departed 
Reanimate that form, 

Could the dews and sunshine 
Precious, genial, warm, 


102 


RESURRECTION FLOWER. 


Bring back life and feeling, — 
Alas! alas! ’tis vain 

To call the sainted maiden 
Back to earth again. 


A prototype, its beauty, 
Of gifts divinely fair ; 
And easily ’tis blasted 
To blossom brighter there ; 
The heart shall never weary, 
The soul shall feel no blight, 
Symbolical of heaven, 
Of joy, of hope, delight. 


Come and read the story 
Upon its petals fair, 
How we may shine in glory, 
How we may enter there ; 
Beautiful, transcendent, 
So may my soul arise, 
And bloom for aye immortal, 
In God’s own paradise. 


ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. WILLIAM 
FLINT, D. D. 


ND thou art gone from us, alas, forever ; 
How bravely, too, was met the dreadful blow ; 
Gone to thy rest, with every pure endeavor 
That love could yield or charity bestow ; 
Gone from thy flock which thou so long hast tended 
And taught the way in simple words sublime ; 
Thy voice is hushed, that ever sweetly blended 
In sacred lore or tuned to holy rhyme. 


At heaven’s gate, unto the last declaring, 

Nor shunned to teach, those holy truths divine 
To every child ; for all their trials caring, 

And sought to soothe in meekness all benign ; 
Gone from thy place beside the chancel railing, 

From scenes away, where thou hast pleading stood, 
For erring man the tempter’s power assailing, 

In earnest prayer for his eternal good.. 


Gone from the table, where in life surrounded 

By dear ones whom the Saviour’s blood has drawn ; 
His precious call by thee to us was sounded, 

And now we weep for thee forever gone ; 


104 ON THE DEATH OF REV. WM. FLINT, D. D. 


We mourn bereaved, the silver cord is broken, 
The glass is dim through which we darkly see ; 

But words of cheer which thou in life hast spoken 
Of endless joys, now bring us nearer thee. 

And while we weep for thee, thou loved departed, 
We see, though dimly, near the Father’s throne 
Thy -form of light ; where sorrow’s clouds are parted 
Soft echoes come, we list each thrilling tone. 

Never again may tender words awaken 

“The heart that death so suddenly has stilled ; 

As thou didst plead, now plead for us in heaven, 
Our cup on earth with bitterness is filled. 


Spring flowers may bloom, but worthless they to 
gladden, 
And song-birds, too, we ever loved to hear ; 
But song and flowers tend only now to sadden, 
So freshly poured in grief upon thy bier ; 
A glorious thought comes oft while we are grieving, 
That thou wilt ope for us the golden door ; 
Thy death, so full of faith, our fears relieving, 
That we should weep, beloved, for thee no more. 


ae ee 


IMPROMPTU. 
TO MISS C. J. ON HER LEAVING MELROSE. 


O regrets, when thou art leaving 
Pine-clad hills and silver streams? 
No attractions on reflection, 
Lady, mingle with thy dreams? 


No emotions wouldst thou cherish, 
Born here in thy highland home? 

Must the present pictures perish, 
When away from us you roam? 


I would weave a wreath immortal 
For each gentle friend of mine ; 

Hue and perfume never dying, 
The forget-me-not entwine. 


We admit thou ownest boldly 
One, but one thou carest to leave ; 
On the rest thou smilest coldly, 
Lady, ’tis for this we grieve. 


Truly thou hast lived some hours, 
Met friends thou canst not forget ; 

I implore thee with these flowers, 
Say thou leavest with regret. 


CUBA. 


GREET thee, Cuba! with thy fruits and flowers, 
Thy soft blue skies, where summer ever reigns ; 
On spirit wings I seek thy leafy bowers, 
Sun-gilded hill-tops, and thy gorgeous plains. 


Years have flown since first o’er thee I wandered, 
Beneath thy palms and orange-perfumed shade, 

O’er myriad lovely plants in rapture pondered, 
Then sighed, alas! the beautiful must fade. 


Thy dark-eyed daughters now are softly gliding 
Round corridors ; I see their raven hair, 

Their gossamer robes, and hear sweet tones confiding, 
Then in the cathedral see them bowed in prayer. 


Bright plumed birds! I seem to hear them singing 
"Mid shining leaves that quiver at their lay, 

Then from golden boughs their pathway winging, 
Evanish in resplendent beams of day. 


’Mid spicy groves thy crystal founts are flashing, 
Flinging a silver spray o’er drooping flowers : 
Against thy coral rocks dark waves are dashing, 
And turrets gleam beside old Moro’s towers. 





CUBA. 107 


If the pure floods of heavenly sunlight, falling 
On palace domes, could melt the iron rod 
Which rules thy people, who in chains are galling, 
Thou mightst be truly free to worship God. 


In winning thee our nation’s wish seems ended, 
Throwing its peaceful mantle o’er thy breast — 
Another star amid our azure blended, 
Thy liberty could never be supprest. 





TO RALPH, ON HIS SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY, 
JULY- 25.1350) 


HIS evening hour, the Sabbath eve, 
The sun just sinking in the west, 
A fadeless wreath of thought I’d weave 
For thee, before I go to rest; _ 
And I would gather only those 
Of purest tint and perfume sweet, 
The violet, lily, and the rose, 
To make it, precious one, complete. 


The violet so meek and low, 

Of modesty the fairest type ; 
Be thus, wherever thou mayst go, 

“If thou wouldst be for heaven ripe ; 
The lily, purity’s own hue, 

Springing so lovely from the earth, 
It breathes a prayer forever new, 

An emblem of a higher birth. 


The rose, the queen of all the flowers, 
Who can describe or tell its worth? 

Transplanted here from Eden’s bowers 
Subduing grief, alike our mirth ; 


LO RALPH, ON HIS SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY. 109 


From this sweet gem my child may learn 
Love’s own deep incense to distill ; 

Let now thy heart with rapture burn, 
Thy heart, to do thy Maker’s will. 


And with these thoughts, flowers I would bind, 
The mountain laurel round thy brow, 

Where the dear Saviour’s cross was signed — 
That solemn hour remember’st thou ? 

Go forth and touch His outspread hand, 
Renew those vows we for thee made, 

And then this spirit will expand 
Thy soul; to this let me persuade. 


Too soon the rosy crown of youth, 
Too soon will vanish, flee away ; 
Resolve to walk steadfast in truth, 
On this, thy sixteenth natal day ; 
A birth from sin, temptation free, 
And power to triumph, lest thou fall ; 
And more, my child, I’d ask for thee, 
From Him who reigneth o’er us all. 


A TRIBU'EE 


OFTLY, ye winds, O sigh softly to-day, 

No wailing of grief on invisible wings, 

No notes of sorrow, the bark ’s on her way, 
Transcendent with fame is the burden she brings ; 

Gently, I plead, O fill gently her sails, 

That safely the pilot intrusted may guide ; 
Suppress now, ye clouds, your lightnings and gales, 
That peacefully homeward our treasure may glide. 


Dark sea, on thy bosom unconsciously bearing 
A casket more rare than a mountain of gold, 

In thy caverns no gems are with it comparing ; 
No language can ever his genius unfold ; 

Sing, ye sweet minstrels, your anthems keep trilling, 
The forests are waiting with laurel and pine, 

Our gardens and vales their sweets are distilling, 
That we for the fallen a chaplet may twine. 


A chaplet for him ; how long is the story 

Of his deeds and his worth, now low on his bier, 
Outshining all the bright crown of his glory ; 

Why mourn or why shed for this hero a tear? . 





A TRIBUTE. 


His mission ’s fulfilled, and his labors are o’er, 
And long as a star in our banner shall float, 
His name will reécho from shore unto shore — 


Our nation rejoice in the name of a CHOATE. 


Ii! 


LINES IN ILLNESS. 


ONE forever, we have parted ; 
Health will gladden ne’er again ; 

Desolate and weary-hearted, 

Earthly wisdom all is vain. 
Health, sweet in the distance smiling, 

Promised one a nearer view ; 
Seldom now an hour beguiling, 

Seldom does a gleam imbue. 


And a dreadful weight is resting 
On my heart and on my brain ; 
Crushing, every joy divesting, 
O, this agonizing pain ; 
How this dreadful weight is pressing, 
Pressing firm upon my heart ; 
Vanished every temporal blessing, 
Health no more her joys impart. 


Ah! beyond the bell is tolling, 
I have heard the distant knell ; 
Billows round me now are rolling, 
Who can fathom, who can tell 


LINES IN ILLNESS. 113 


When this harp, so strained with anguish, 
Shall breathe out its last farewell, 

When this aching heart shall languish 
With the thoughts it cannot tell? 


Dark and dismal seems the morrow, 
Yet the spirit waters flow ; 
Of a heavenly light I borrow, 
Feeling then ’twere sweet to go: 
Then, again, the lamp burns dimmer, 
Dungeon darkness me surrounds, 
Catch I but the faintest glimmer 
Of those bowers where health abounds. 


8 


ISLES OF SHOALS. 


SLES of mid ocean! how lovely ye stand, - 
Surrounded by waters that sparkle and glow ; 

List! may my brow by thy breezes be fanned — 

I seek for a treasure ; say, canst thou bestow? 
Tell me if health for the weak and the weary 

Is found in the waves that glisten and foam? 
Long have I wandered, faint-hearted and dreary, 

In search of this blessing, — how long shall I roam ? 


I played in the streams that gush from the mountains, 
In childhood, not far away from thy shores ; 
Thy history familiar— but where are the fountains 
Of health and of joy my spirit implored? 
How oft have I sat, unconscious of sorrow, 
And listened to tales by the mariners told, 
On a neighboring isle, where fancy would borrow 
Sad pictures of wrecks that thy caverns enfold. 


Long have ye slumbered, fair isles of the ocean, 
Forgotten, neglected your virtues and worth, 
Save by the Father—to Him our devotion 
Is due, ever due, for His riches on earth. 





q 





ISLES OF SHOALS. II5 


Science, unfolding her truths to the miner 
Who seeks for her gems and brings them to light, 
Has taught us thy breezes are purer and finer — 
Thy soft, soothing balms the stricken invite. 


Barren and rough, yet still how suggestive ; 
Thy chasms how wild, how awfully grand ; 
And those rolling billows, so dark and so restive, 
Upheld by the might of an infinite hand! 

Where are thy naiads? Their vestures are clinging 
Around the huge ramparts that girdle each isle ; 
Where are their dwellings? ‘Their voices are ringing ; 

Come they at even? We'll linger awhile. 


Hasten, ye visions of hope so entrancing ! 
And vanish, ye dreams — O wherefore inthrall, 
While promise of health my pleasure enhancing, 
On the sorrowing past the curtain may fall. 
From the dawning of day till the closing of even 
We'll sing of thy praises, though simple the song ; 
With gratitude, love, and the strength that is given, 
Untold recollections around thee will throng. 


TO AN UNKNOWN PORTRAIT. 


E never have met, I know not the name, 
Yet strangely familiar thy face ; 
What of thy history, or what of thy fame, 
I find not a word, not a trace. 
Thy pardon I crave, if bold I do seem, 
This pertinent question to ask ; 
Perchance we have met, have met in a dream, 
But when? will the future unmask ? 


O where is thy home? say, dwellest thou near, 
In city, or mountain, or dale? 

Where are thy kindred, the loved and the dear — 
Wilt thou the mystery unveil? 

Gaze not on me thus, but speak, I implore, 
In candor the story declare ; . 

Where art thou straying? I ask thee once more ; 
This silence I never could bear. 

What power possessing, what magic, my friend — 
For a friend thou truly must be — 

For my wondering spirit so proud, to unbend 
To render a tribute to thee ; 





As i : 
—— = ee 


TO AN UNKNOWN PORTRAIT. 117 


I weep and I smile, e’en now as I plead, 
With a sense of exquisite pain ; 

Forgive me; I’m wayward, aye, wayward indeed ; 
Say not I am pleading in vain. 


One hour I would ask sweet converse to hold, 
The purest of thoughts to express ; 

And when the closed leaves of my heart I unfold, 
I am sure with thy prayers thou wilt bless ; 
Thou wouldst come to me then, in sadness, in pain, 

Thy spirit’s own bride I would be ; 
To wander, thou ne’er wouldst leave me again — 
Sad stranger, then hasten to me. 


AFTER A SERMON. 


“* What do ye more than others.” 
St. MATTHEW v. 47. 


HAT have I done, what good indeed, 
Since last within Thy sacred gate? 
Not more than others, though agreed 
To ever on Thy pleasure wait ; 
What have I done to justify 
The pledge which Thou hast sealed on high, 
Sealed with Thy love immaculate? 


Far have I wandered from the way, 
As I attend upon Thy word; 
Within these hallowed walls to-day 
How has my soul its depths been stirred ; 
Views of the resurrection morn 
Our loved ambassador has drawn, 
And duties long, too long, deferred. 


Beseeching, dost thou stand apart, 
Above this penitential throng ; 

With list’ning ear and trembling heart 
Bowed is my head with fear and wrong ; 





| 
a 


AFTER A SERMON. 


As thou in saintly robes so fair 
From His own book dost now declare 
My fate, my destiny ere long. 


Sweetly hast thou portrayed sublime 

The mantle that we each should wear, 
So richly wrought with gems divine 

By Him who does our crosses bear ; 
What power, what gifts are thine to sound, 
With thrilling voice and love profound, 


The heart, that we His crown may wear. 


Not more than others — nay, I shrink 
To hear what I have left undone ; 
And near, perchance, the dreadful brink, 
The promised prize by me not won; 

Eternity, the shoreless sea — 
A glimpse appears to-day to me 
That I must cross with chart alone. 


O Father, strengthen this my vow, 
_ My pure resolve, my heart renew ; 
With charity my will endow, 

Keep me in all I hope to do; 
A steadfast faith in Thy dear Son, 
Until my labors here are done ; 

No way but Thine would I pursue. 


119 


ON A LETTER. 


OW beautiful! how beautiful! the dream comes 
back again, 

As now I draw this treasure forth from where it long 
hath lain ; 

In characters, how neatly set, as I again behold, 

And read, aye, read, as though thy pen the ets just 
had told, 

As though thy hand had lately traced each syllable each 
word, 

As though thine heart were just as warm, with sweet emo- 
tions stirred, : 

As when thou ours this loving strain to cheer my 
saddened heart, 

' And pointed to the only Source which could a balm 

impart. 


The date, the present, answers this our holy Advent 
time, 

When every heart, if tuned aright, must dwell on things 
sublime, 

Reminding ever as it will, to earnestly implore 

His pardon for the misspent time, for strength to sin 
no more ; 





ON A LETTER. It 


Its contents still retain a charm, a power so sweet; and 
yet 

The dread uncertainty of joy, which I would fain forget 

Intrudes, and blisters every page with an unbidden tear ; 

Alas, that friendship’s purest ties should all be sun- 
dered here. 


O, tell me now, thou sainted one, tell me if thou dost 
wait, 

And knowest all I do and say, within yon golden gate? 

- Tell me if thou dost guide my steps, my trials all dost 
know? 

I pause in this dim wilderness where troubled waters 
flow ; 

I am wondering how may I know; the way seems dis- 
tant, far ; 

Yet when again I read these lines, descending like a 
star, 

A light so soft, so tender, too, surrounds me like a spell, 

Awakening hallowed memories an angel’s pen might 
tell. 


Yet on I tread the tangled maze, my hope cheered on 
by love 

Of those who oft have joined me here, but now in 
bowers above 

Rejoice, and with a power unknown they bid me live, 
be strong 

To wait, to patiently endure ; life cannot suffer long ; 

A sympathy, e’en while I read, assures me more and 
more 







ON A LETTER. 
Our hearts will there united. be, upon that: 
_ shore ; : 


me . again ; : 
How beautiful will be our: none when we in bliss 
reign ! ; 


WITH A WATCH-CASE. 


LACE this slipper in thy chamber, 
Broidered with a silken thread ; 

When at night thou wak’st from slumber, 

Have it, dearest, near thy bed. 
From a fairy it was taken, 

Dancing on the lakelet shore ; 
Happy dreams may it awaken, 

Dreams thou hast never dreamt before. 


When the evening lamp is lighted, 
Do not sit and sigh, “ Ah me!” 
Smile and plead for one benighted, 
Who now sends this gift to thee ; 
When the golden burden presses, 
When the watch it does enfold, 
Send thy spirit with caresses, 
For the thoughts o’er it untold. 


LINES FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING. 


SIMPLE tribute I would bring, 
While we to-day review 
The summer of our life and spring, 
Our golden autumn too. 





Those paths so sweet, beloved friend, 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 

We travelled oft together there, 
No longer now are ours. 


Alas! my pen can never tell — 
*Twill not my thoughts obey — 

The mingled memories that rise 
On this eventful day. 


Yet we no sorrow would bewail, 
But greet thee, as of yore, 

When blushing ’neath the bridal veil: 
His blessings still implore. 


‘How touching is the twilight eve 
Of life we now behold! 

A bridal crown may angels weave, 
To-night for thee, of gold. 


TO THE FUTURE OCCUPANT OF MY HOME 
AT MELROSE. 


ENTLE lady, after sealing 
J I would write a simple line; 
Not without emotion, feeling, 
While I by this act resign ; 
Destiny there’s no defying, 
It is done, the Deed is sealed ; 
Many memories undying — 
These my heart can never yield. 


How upon a theme so tender 
Can I trust my heart to-day, 
While my home to thee I render, 
Tell thee all I wish to say? 

This is anguish never sounded, 
Never till to-day before ; 

This is sadness, grief unbounded, 
Reaching. to my bosom’s core. 


Gentle lady, if I falter, 
Pardon — this is hard to bear — 

Yielding up my home, my altar, 
Dear to me beyond compare ; 


126 


TO THE FUTURE OCCUPANT OF MY HOME. 


Here are links which I must sever, 
Ties to break and yet be strong ; 
In the path of duty ever, 
This shall cheer, to-day, my song. 


Lady, oft alone thou’lt ponder 
On the beauty of each view, 

And thy mind be filled with wonder, 
It may thrill with rapture too ; 
From the north and south extended, 
Every way which thou -mayst turn, 
Nature’s mysteries are blended, 

Something ever new to learn. 


All these sacred pictures leaving, 
All I render unto thee ; 
Still my heart to them is cleaving, 
Still they bear a charm for me; 
Scented groves and garden bowers, 
Vales I ne’er may see again, 
Mountains, rocks, and wild wood flowers — 
Language, ah, to-day is vain. 


Gentle lady, from thy slumbers, 
When each morn thou dost awake, 
When the minstrels trill their numbers, 
A request I have to make, — 
To attend this feathered choir ; 
Long with thee will they abide, 
Charming more than lute or lyre 
If thou wilt for them provide. 


a 





LO THE FUTURE OCCUPANT OF MY HOME. 


Still another I implore, 
Of importance more than this ; 
When the needy at thy door, 
That they never me may miss ; 
Of thy goods O give a share, 
Speak a tender word for me; 
While ascends my daily prayer, 
I will offer one for thee. 


Like the Dove, alone and dreary, 
Henceforth from this Ark I go ; 

Searching till my heart may weary 
For a resting-place below ; 

Like the Dove of olden story, 
Happy would it be for me 

Should I find that peace, that glory, 
In that Ark, O God, with Thee. 


r24 











Aare 
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fe Wy 


Pa a a 
" ap eS = Gy = 





CITY INCIDENT. 


LTHOUGH simply drawn, the picture is true, 
Pause for a moment and listen, my friend ; 

Just as it was I will sketch it for you, 

In charity’s name your sympathy lend. 
Walking alone on a mission to-day, 

I met on the park, by a wealthy man’s door, 
A boy —O his accents I cannot portray — 

Scarce seven years old, and wretchedly poor. 


“They've taken my bread ;” this answer he gave 
When the question was put, “ Pray, why do you cry?” 
“This is my basket, and all I could save ; 
They snatched it and ran ; now for more would I try, 
But, lady, ’tis late, the lamplighter ’s round, 
Now lighting the streets already, you see ; 
I have a long walk on cold, frozen ground, 
And mother and sister are waiting for me. 


“T begged just enough for their supper, I thought, 
And was running along at the top of my speed, 
When three naughty boys, a piece they each caught 

From my basket, while I was in hunger and need. 
My father was killed in the war long ago, 
And mother is sick, and my sister is young. 


132 CITY INCIDENT. 


They could rob me because they are larger, you know ; 
On my feet, bare and cold, these stones they have — 
flung.” 


May God in His infinite mercy look down 

On abodes such as his, this poor wandering one, 
And send them relief to lighten the frown 

Of penury’s chill, when stern winter ’s begun ; 
May all noble hearts who have plenty to spare, — 

Be touched with compassion, who well can afford 
To carry them bread, and clothing to wear ; 

By doing such deeds they lend to the Lord. 





AFTER A SERMON 


BY THE PASTOR OF SAINT MARK’S CHURCH. 
“For it is appointed unto man once to die.” 


UT once! this the appointed time 
For fallen man to die ; 
But once! how solemn, how sublime! 
Think of thy destiny ; 
Think how thy pastor pleads to-day 
That all thy sins be washed away, 
Meet for those realms on high. 


Another day, alas, too late! 
How startling, yet how true 
The picture of our doom, our fate, 
His loved apostle drew ; 
How high his mission, and how grand, 
This young ambassador, to stand, 
His Master’s way pursue ; 


To mark the course, to paint the way, 
All troubled hearts to show 

Their sorrows, where their burdens lay 
While wandering below ; 

Where those sweet waters may be found, 


AFTER A SERMON. 


Where peace, where love, where joy abound, 
From whence those streamlets flow. 


To analyze with science, skill, 
With such a holy art, 
To bend, to break the stubborn will, 
Then healing balm impart ; 
And genius’ sacred lore combine 
With gifts to sanctify divine 
The unregenerate heart. 


This, this a glorious work indeed ; 
Then wherefore longer wait, 

Repeating psalter, psalm, or creed, 
Before Jehovah’s gate? 

But once to die, with fear I own, 

With trembling, Father, now atone 
For sins too heavy, great. 


Resist, ah never, such appeal 
Presented with such care, 

With pathos and with fervor, zeal, 
Those Bible truths so rare ; 

A sermon perfect, part and whole, 

To search the heart, to reach the soul, 
‘Its seeds must flourish there. 





LINES TO MISS M. H., JUNE, 1861. 


OSS roses to-day and white lilies too, 
Violets which bloom in the woodlands so free ; 
The rarest exotics all fragrant with dew, 
Which blush in the garden, on lawn, or on tree ; 
Exquisite buds from the orange in flower ; 
Search for the gems in Flora’s rich bower, 
And bring the choice plunder to me. 


A garland I weave, for whom, didst thou say? 

A bride — but her name to breathe I don’t dare ; 
No ; wait in the church by the altar to-day, 

Her pastor the rite, the sweet name will declare ; 
The organ will peal, the prayer will be said, 
Blessings invoked on her beautiful head, 

When she shall be given away ;— 


Away from her home, the luxuriant nest, 
So lovingly reared amid views ever grand, 
Where parents have fondled, and friends have carest, 
By culture, by care, by joy, ever fanned ; 
Away from those streams, the purest that flow, 
From founts of affection, to mortals below ; 
For pledged is her heart and her hand. 


136 LINES TO MISS M. H. 


A minstrel of love has touched and has stirred 
The chords of her heart; rapt echoes will thrill 
And charm as the gush from the mountain bird; 
In raptures ’twill flow and never be still. 
So happy united, a song I would sing, 
That Heaven may guard with a sheltering wing, 
Each cherished desire fulfill. 


Now bring me the myrtle and jessamine white, 
Search Eden beloved, for asphodels fair, 
The young bride to crown, the star, the delight, 
With crown fit only for houries to wear ; 
And June, smiling June, her treasures shall bring 
To adorn with the robes, the veil, and the ring ; 
O hasten, for I would prepare. 


IMPROMPTU 
FOR A GIFT OF ROSES. 


ROSE has magic in its leaves, 
Or in its petals I should say ; 
A spell around my heart it weaves, 
Sweet lady, then be chary, pray. 


This offering is sweet and fair, 

Which thou on me dost now bestow ; 
Its dewy fragrance seems so rare, 

How to describe I hardly know — 


Or how to thank thee for thy gift, 
So freely to a stranger given ; 

I sometimes think that angels dwell 
Upon the earth the same as heaven. 


MORNING PRAYER AT ST. MARK’S CHAPEL. 


E, kneeled within our chapel there, 
Our chapel, just across the way ; 
A stillness seemed to charm the air, 
While our ambassador of prayer 
Kneeled for the sick to pray ; 
Then borne upon the spirit’s wings, 
Sweet inspiration drew. 


Imagination pictured so 

Distinct a sketch, that some did weep ; 
For whom they prayed they did not know, 
Yet tears of sympathy would flow 

From fountains pure and deep. 
Alas! some household was in grief, 

And some lone chamber dark with pain ; 
We plead of Him to grant relief, 

The sufferer to restore again. 


How beautiful the Saviour’s love 

Has linked in one communion here 
Each child of His, where’er they rove ; 
United by that cross above, 

We all to’: Him are dear; 


MORNING PRAYER AT ST. MARE’S CHAPEL. 139 


Then when we kneel to pray for those 
Who are unknown within our fold, 

Our sympathy expands and grows, 
Our love is kept from growing cold. 


CONFIRMATION. 


EAUTIFUL, the whole is lighted, 
Chancel, nave, and cushioned pew ; 

Streaming from the painted window 

Gold and scarlet, purple, blue ; 
Now, the lovely beams descending, 

See the holy font is dyed ; 
Every symbol light is lending, 

All the church is glorified. 


Hark! the solemn strains are pealing 
Through the arches, low and high ; 
Is it angel voices pealing 
From the portals of the sky? 
Is it incense on the altar, 
Burning as in days of old, 
Rising with our psalm, our psalter, 
While the spirit-views unfold ? 


Months and years I never weary, 
Pleading for the wayward, lost, 
Through these labyrinths so dreary, 

Never counting what it cost. 


CONFIRMATION. 


He, the chosen and the gifted, 
God-commissioned pastor, stands, 

With his voice, his soul uplifted, 
For the laying on of hands. 


Come and listen ; see the picture ; 
Longer how can ye rebel? 

Standing on the verge, the threshold, 
Speak, beloved, speak and tell. 

Now in saintly robes are bending 
Bishop, pastor; both unite 

Love beseeching and defending, 
Children, for the mystic rite. 


Trembling forms and hands are folded, 
Lo! around, the chancel rail ; 
Hearts the Saviour’s love has moulded, 
Now received within His pale ; 
Penitential dews distilling, 
Precious more than fruits of gold ; 
Father, while our vows fullfilling 
May we hidden truths behold. 


Sweet this contest in devotion, 
When in God’s own house we kneel ; 

Sweet the changes, every motion 
Raptures undefined reveal ; 

Sympathy the chord has brightened, 
Linking all the pure in heart ; 

All our cares, our sorrows lightened, 
In a measure they depart. 


141 


142 


CONFIRMA TION. 


Angels o’er us, are they gazing? 
Bend they from their home above? 
How mysterious, amazing, 
Saviour, is Thy pardoning love ; 
While we feel Thy love, Thy power, 
Spread o’er us Thy sheltering wing, 
Guard us till our dying hour ; 
To Thy cross alone we cling. 


TO A FRIEND. 


HE year is fading ; now, Beloved, to thee 
A simple strain in sadness I would sing; 
Though in each line a discord there should be, 

- Yet to thine heart it may a pleasure bring ; 
For tender thoughts must leave their soft impress, 
While we sit thinking of the loved, the dear ; 

I would alone to-night such words express, 
However rough, discordant they appear. 


Clouds have arisen o’er our blessed land 
Since first we met—’tis scarce twelve months ago ; 
Their shadows rest on many a household band, 
And tears, alas! how many tears now flow 
For those departed in this odious war ; 
The good, the brave— but why should I recall ? 
Its blight is felt throughout the world afar, 
But soon from heaven may the sunlight fall. 


I cannot tell thee all I wish ‘to say, 

Or paint in words the pictures as they glow; 
My pen will not my trembling heart obey, 

But dost thou not its deepest meaning know? 


144 TO A FRIEND. 


Shall we not tread the lovely paths again, 
Another year, the same we’ve trod before? 

With all our pleasures there is mingled pain, 
And when with thee I could endure no more. 


This strange intelligence, this mystic thread 
Which few below could ever understand, 
Though most by it unconsciously are led, 
I own, its spells I cannot all withstand ; 
Debarred by fate, a voluntary vow, 
Is not the feeling truly more intense? 
I cannot tell thee why it is, or how, 
No words convey love’s meaning, no defense. 


Through mazes fair, Belovéd, lead me still, 
O lead me safely, as a guardian, guide ; 
Love’s sweetest vows unspoken I’d fulfill, 
If I may walk forever by thy side; 
I know now why I paused, in meeting thee, 
To think of bowers free from pain and care, 
While I was urged by duty’s stern decree 
Into thy presence—I the theme forbear. 


The unattained — what is beyond our power, 
What most we long for is the unattained — 
If once possessed, would it not like a flower 
Fade ere the pleasure sought we half had gained? 
’Tis hard to tell, for few have ever tried 
To make me truly, seriously, a friend ; 
If all my wealth of heart I now confide, 
To thy sweet thralldom may I ever bend. 


TO A FRIEND. 145 


It brings no joy, but yet we sometimes dream 
What might have been ; ah! this is useless, vain ; 
We only catch of blissful hours a gleam, 
And thus we live and hope for them again. 
How can we always, always mock, disguise 
The holiest springs, and bid them cease to flow ; 
How seal the founts of sympathy that rise, — 
Tell me, Beloved, for this I wish to know. 


Twelve months, I said, had passed since first we met ; 
Dost thou not know ’tis near as many years! 

The place, the time, I never could forget ; 
Dream-like this lapse so long to-night appears: 

It was electric, though a passing glance, 
Which from my memory never passed away, 

A revelation, though we met by chance, 
Haunting my dreams by night, and, too, by day. 


And when you questioned me a year ago, 
With such a sad, with such a thrilling look 
Where we had met —lest that my tears might flow, 
An explanation I ne’er dared to brook ; 
It seemed so sacred, aye, a theme so pure, 
That angels only should the record keep ; 
And heavenward me it tended to allure, 
This fount of love so fathomless, so deep. 


And now, Beloved, what power have I to make 
A simple vow, with which my heart is filled? 
Yet fervently I would with thee partake 
Of all the joys the world has yet distilled ; 


Io 


146 TO A FRIEND. 


The rest to Heaven; O may it bless and guide; 
Vouchsafed may every earthly blessing be ; 

In every change, whatever may betide, 
I faithfully would always cling to thee. 


LINES 


“SUGGESTED BY THE 124TH SELECTION OF PSALMS, FROM 
THE PRAYER—BOOK, SUNG AT ST. MARK’S CHURCH. 


THAT the power to me were given 
To sing as I would sing to-night 
A song of praise, of love, of heaven ; 
Such, only such, I’d sing and write ; 
But when I strike my lute, its strings 
Weak and discordant music brings. 


The fault is mine; full well I know 
‘That I have wandered from His fold, 
Where precious founts, where streamlets flow, 
And harps are waiting, strung with gold ; 
Then nearer, Father, to Thy throne, 
The world and sin would I disown. 


Beset whichever way we turn, 
By snares entangled everywhere, 
O Father teach me now to spurn, 
Renouncing for a life of prayer ; 
And listen while my voice I raise 
To sing Thy righteousness, Thy praise. 


148 


LINES SUGGESTED BY 124TH PSALM. 


I ofttimes feel while standing there, 
My soul uplifted, ’mid the throng, 
Responding low to chant or prayer, 
My heart again can ne’er go wrong, 
When solemn words of rapture flow 
From him, our pastor, guide below. 


Then, Father, keep; give me the power, 

This night the strength, the strength I need, 
That I in every trying hour 

In Thee may rest, to Thee may plead ; 
And keep me steadfast ; hear my song, 
My words which all to Thee belong. 


a 


MARION. 


ELOVED, list ; those eyes of thine 

Are lighted by a spark divine ; 
Nay, turn not, till I breathe the whole, 
The beauty of thy mind, thy soul ; 
Of these, sweet Marion, I’d speak, 
Richer than hue on brow or cheek ; 
And these the fairest flowers outvie 
When morning dews upon them lie. 


Others may charm with dance, with song, 
But greater spells to thee belong ; 

Thy form of purity, of grace, 

Arms perfect to enfold embrace ; 

Thy character with these combine 

Great wealth and pleasure to outshine ; 
The gems of mind the most I prize, 

A wife like thee, so truly wise. 


Let others distant lands explore 

For hidden or mysterious lore, 
Content ’mid nature’s fields I’ll roam 
With thee, in sylvan, rural home ; 


150 


MARION. 


The purest rills unseen do flow, 
And blossoms sweet in valleys blow ; 
A type of these the most Id prize, 
A wife like thee, so chaste, so wise. 


A REQUEST. 


DD to my household idols, one precious treasure 
bring ; 
It will o’er all the others a pleasing radiance fling ; 
Transfer upon the canvas his magic lip and eye, 
Vividly as portraiture can with my wish comply ; 
Faithfully each lineament, no trait would I forego, 
His counterpart, his image, the gem on me bestow; 
The massive brow and temples expanding with rich 
thought, 

The noblest the Creator has in His image wrought. 


And tell the gifted painter, whoe’er he chance to be, 

To shadow forth the sweetness which won my heart 
from me ; 

The intellectual vigor, so dauntless and serene, 

The self-absorbed expression, the marked and _lofty 
mien ; 

The soft, sad, unrevealing dark eye when in repose, 

Which flashes forth such brightness, that with such 
beauty glows ; 

To catch the grace of motion, the pride, and, too, the 
SCOrn ; 

Enchantment round the wonder throw, a dignity inborn, 


152 A REQUEST. 


Inflexible, yet yielding to mild affection’s voice, 

Have all his virtues blended, a combination choice ; 
Weave his name of diamonds, within a jasper frame, 
Mine with rubies, also weave, just opposite the same. 
When find for me the artist who will to this reply? 
For such I’ll twine a laurel crown, heroes can’t outvie ; 
And there above my altar, neath where the angels bend, 
Let me this priceless picture with golden cord suspend. 


LOCKING THE DOOR. 


ITH trembling step and chastened heart I trod 
The hall that night, with thought to bolt the 
door ; 
For strength I plead to bear the heavy rod, 
And felt my trial, or the worst was o’er. 
And yet I prayed, and paused, till hours flew by, 
Till warned of midnight by the striking bell, 
I had no power to turn the key, but why? 
Ask those bereft the same, if they can tell. 


Ask such if they can any language find 

To paint the anguish of a mother’s heart, 
Ere she to battle has her son resigned 

To act a soldier’s, aye, a hero’s part! 
Let them explain, without emotion tell, 

The mystery why I lingered then and there: 
The effort will the very thought repel — 

No parting can with this sad one compare. 


When worn and weary with distracted thought, 
Upon a couch I rested there awhile, 

Till from my dreams a ray of light I caught, 
Which waking did the darkness all beguile ; 


154 LOCKING THE DOOR. 


~ I first beheld, when darkness wrapped me round, 
A picture painful rising on my view — 

Our nation falling, crumbling to the ground, 
Our halls of state in smouldering ruins too. 


Around was terror and destruction all ! 
And fearful flames were streaming to the skies! 
Alas, I would not now the scene recall, 
Its horror, too, my memory defies. 
Then in the distance shouts of joy I heard, 
The tramp of horses, and the bugle’s note; 
I listened till my heart with rapture stirred, 
And, gazing, saw again our lovely ensign float. 


Above the ruins in the sunlight came — 
My boy with banner waving in his hand! 

The azure ground glowed with each star the same, 
Peace was proclaimed to our unhappy land. 

And then I rose with firmness, turned the key, 
Locked out my treasure on the tented field, 

Cheered by this dream ;— then came the thought to me 
The Saviour’s cross upon his brow was sealed. 


IN MEMORIAM. 


GRAVE at Wyoming ; the young hero fell 
On that terrible field, Antietam, the doomed ; 
The flowers here will bloom, the birds they may tell 
Where his form lies forever with glory entombed. 
This boy, in his beauty, with dark flashing eye, 
The idol of home by that beautiful lake,! 
Responded alike to the war bugle’s cry, 
His armor girt on for his country’s sake. 


O’er his grave at Wyoming loved ones may weep ; 
The promise he gave is lost to them now ; 

Yet on the bright scroll his name we will keep ; 
All meekly resigned to the cross may they bow. 

On the battle-field thus it were easier to die, 
Than struggle with pain all through a long life: 

May the desolate home and the tear-dimmed eye 
Be cheered, when he fell so pure in the strife. 


His grave at Wyoming; no lovelier place 
Can be found for the soldier, so young, to repose. 
The summits will guard, and the wild flowers grace, 
And the gems, too, that love and affection bestows. 


1 Lake Melrose. 


156 IN MEMORIAM. 


The willows will weep o’er the stream where he played, 
And ’neath them the ripples his gala boat kiss ; 
His pet dog, who always his bidding obeyed, 
Waits watching, and seems his young master to miss. 


His grave at Wyoming; while fresh is the mould, 
Plant daisies, and with them the laurel should grow ; 
When his comrades from battle, and school-mates be- 
hold, . 
The place will be sweet for them surely to know. 
’Twas touching the boughs from the willows to bring, 
The chapel to drape with flags and with flowers ; 
Appropriate, too, the chant there to sing, 
For his spirit’s repose in holier bowers. 


His grave at Wyoming; the place, guard it well ; 
O, guard it, ye trees, that forever are green, 
And whisper the story how bravely he fell ; 
Ye summits keep watch where the eagle is seen. 
O, bird of the North, with thy sheltering wing, 
Look lovingly down on this hallowed dust, 
Till o’er it the songs of freedom we sing, 
Till again reunited in heaven, our trust. 


ON RECEIVING THE CARTE-DE-VISITE OF 
A FRIEND. 


T is perfect, every line, 
The form, the dress, the features too ; 

It seems, beloved, to me divine — 

This picture which the sunlight drew ; 
The attitude so full of grace, 

The dauntless military air, 
The bold, serene, expressive face ; 

The godlike only such can wear. 


If but the muses now would come, 
With all their gifts my soul imbue, 
I’d take my lyre and shrine in song, 
Or shadow forth thine image too; 
Thy tenderness, thy power, combined 
Is visible in every shade ; , 
The radiance, the undefined, 
E’en inspiration must evade. 


Of life so full, a thing of art 

It hardly seems while I behold ; 
To me it ever will impart 

A mystic influence untold ; 


158 


a 


ON RECEIVING A CARTE-DE-VISITE. 


And were my admiration less, 
Aye, less sincere than it-is now, 
I could not all my joy suppress 
While gazing on thy form and_ brow. 


A deeper charm surrounding all, 
Surpassing yet the painter’s art; 
Henceforth an idol, to recall 
The pure emotions of my heart ; 
A thousand thanks for this, kind friend ; 
My album now, the gem shall grace ; 
A hero crowned, if such should send, 
I’d not remove to give it place. 


REPLY TO A TRANSLATION FROM THE 
GERMAN. 


HINK of thee, I 
Would fain reply 
To sweet words brief, 
Yet no relief ; 
Canst hear me sigh? 


Think of thee, I! 
When sleeping lie 

The birds and flowers, 
In twilight’s bowers, 
Thou seemest nigh. 


Think of thee, [! 

How tenderly, 

My soul’s bright wing 
Would sunshine fling — 
Wants all supply. 


Think of thee, I! 
Hope, trust, rely ; 
Bliss evermore, 

In prayer implore, 
His angels nigh. 


160 REPLY TO A TRANSLATION. 


I’ll think of thee 
Till our union be, 
Our sins forgiven, 
Complete in heaven, 
This, this my plea. 


TO A ROBIN. 


ING, O beautiful bird of the morning ; 
Trill out thy song and then listen to me. 
Minstrel of light, awake since the dawning 
Of day, I would bear a message to thee ; 
I, too, like thee, would pour out my gladness, 
My gratitude render in tremulous song ; 
I, too, like thee, would banish all sadness, 
Shadows dispel which at parting will throng. 


I, too, like thee, would fly over mountain, 
Flitting about on my mission all day ; 

I, too, would linger in forest, by fountain, 
Chanting an anthem, or musical lay ; 

Under the leaves wait, while I deliver 
My loving farewell to Dartmouth, bright bird ; 

Alas! only fragments of thought can I gather ; 
Too much the sources of feeling are stirred. 


Thou canst inspire with thy witching numbers 
Every sad heart, as thou hast now mine own ; 
Scatter the clouds where sorrow encumbers, 
Carrying peace from thine emerald throne: 
II 


162 TO A ROLLIN: 


I would implore for those I am leaving, 

Those who my pathway with pleasure have lined, 
Garlands of gems, which fancy is weaving, 

More brilliant than language ever combined. 


Roaming about, so wild and so gifted, 
Thy praises attuning to every desire, 
However depressed, every eye is uplifted ; 
Sweet robin, come closer and let me admire. 
Now take. my farewell; take it, and soften 
And carol it gently to every heart ; 
Gratefully, kindly, ~eminding them often 
Of me, lovely songster, when I depart. 


TO MRS, L——. 


. GAIN in the temple, sweet lady ; but why, 
_ May I ask, art thou clad in that sorrowing dress? 

I never had learned the destroyer came nigh 

To take from thine arms what thou lovedst to caress ; 
’Mid the pause of responses, again and again 

I fancied I caught a grief-stricken sigh, 
Thrilling alike my own bosom with pain, 

While words from the pastor ascended on high. 


Again in the temple, sweet lady; O, say, 
What changes came o’er thee to sadden thy brow? 
When sympathy moves me, its voice I obey, 
Thy pardon I crave for intruding just now: 
This place, to thee sacred, so precious to all, 
Has a charm, a repose, which I cannot define ; 
’T will ever the past and its pictures recall, 
Uniting the heart with the loved, the divine. 


VALENTINE CONGRATULATORY. 


LO. REV. oC. oe. 


Y paper is blank, and how to begin, - 
Of all is the hardest to do, 
On a subject so tender, and cherished to win 
A kindly remembrance from you ; 
The gods have all smiled, for so have I learned, 
Smiled down on your beautiful nest ; | 
The torches of love have steadily burned, 
And you with a daughter are blest. 


’Tis sweet to behold an image so fair, 
So pretty, so helpless, and frail ; 
I tremble, e’en while I reverently dare 
This measure my pen to avail, 
To drop you a line — though harsh to the ear, 
My strain is of sympathy, love — | 
That she may illume your earthly career, 
Be a star in your garland above. 


For her, O one more humble word I must speak, 
And this with a tender caress ; 

So lovely and winsome, so fragile and weak, 
I’ll pray that good angels may bless ; 


VALENTINE CONGRATULATORY. 165 


That you may select, with skill and with care, 
A crucible pure, to refine 

And polish your gem all perfectly fair, 
And then to her Saviour resign. 


DO WAIT, IF YOU CAN. 


| sre mended the sheets and the pillow-slips, too, 

And said, for months past, — A week more they may 
do! 

Patched, woven, and stitched, the inside turned out, 

Reversed and inserted, and twisted about, 

Till articles number but few in the drawer, 

That haven’t a patch, or a seam, or a flaw ; 

All this the result of the great wisdom of man, 

Who replied from the first — Do wait, if you can. 


Appeals that were urgent; this was the reply: 
White cloth will be cheaper, my dear, by-and-by ; 
This horrible war will soon come to an end, 
The South again to us their cotton will send. 
Speculation is rife ; the merchant to-day 

Is having the price-current all his own way ; 
Stewart in cotton is leading the van, . 

And still it goes on — Do wait, if you can. 


The same it has been for two terrible years, 

And no change, as yet, in the programme appears ; 
White cotton is up, and the black man is free, 
The condition of things distressing to see. 


DO WAL, [EF YOU CAN. 167 


Perplexing, exhausting, we ponder and sigh, 
The war rages on and the taxes are high, 
The self-same response as when first it began, 
Be patient, and wait— Do wait, if you can. 


Thus, week after week, by the clothes-basket, when 
From the laundry the clothes come in dozens, I then 
Overhaul and arrange each set in their place, 

Sew strings on, the buttons, the ruffs, and the lace, 
All examine with care ; and while I behold, 

Each article seems now as precious as gold, 

So dazzlingly white; then how may I plan 

For more? The response is— Do wait, if you can. 


Fine ruffles and tucks, which once floated around 

The beautiful belle, on the pavement and ground, 

Are rarely displayed, as the future they fear 

May leave them quite minus a wrapping so dear ; 
And, alas! there’s another great charm they must lose, 
For the white cotton hose what substitute choose? 
Week in and week out we retrench for the clan, 
While the key-note is still— Do wait, if you can. 


The palace-like stores in Franklin Street Square, 

Of cotton goods soon must be empty and bare; 
Princes who trade there, an intelligent host, 

May not of their fortunes make hurry to boast ; 

We would not complain at successes so great, 

E’en though they do dine from cut-glass and plate, 
If the cloud from the brow of the poor they will fan, 
And never say to them — Pray wait, if you can. 


168 DO WAIT, IF YOU CAN. 


A woman contented, who ever could be? 
Forever we’re waiting, yes waiting to see 

Some happy event which will never take place ; 
Disappointments of life we can never efface. 
And then if a woman contented you find, 
Preach much as you will, how small is her mind 
Who humbly submits to whatever her fate ; 
Then marvel not we do impatiently wait. 


LINES 


SUGGESTED BY A LETTER FROM THE THIRTY—FIFTH 
. MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT. 


HE tidings sweet just reaching me, 
That health and joy attend, 
I’d write that all who love may see, 
Though discord in my theme may be; 
Yet from my heart how gratefully, 
Shall prayer and song ascend. 


The Alleghanies, heaven-spanned, 
Clothed in their vernal dress, 
They’ve crossed, while showers and breezes fanned ; 
The noble Thirty-fifth there stand, 

A tried, a loyal band, 
Unflinching to aggress. 


To-night by fair Kentucky’s streams, 
One ‘midst this loyal band, 

Near where the traitor’s camp-fire beams, 

My youthful soldier’s rifle gleams ; 

’Tis this that colors all my dreams, 
Unnerves my heart and hand. 


170 LINES SUGGESTED BY A LETTER. 


To each, whatever be his rank, 
A laurel should be given. 
And they, who in past conflict sank, 
Escaped the bitter dregs we drank 
In homes still desolate and blank, 
For martyred ones in heaven. 


Their files are thinned by battle’s tide, 
And broken forms are there ; 

The chieftain Wild, restored to guide, 

And King, the dauntless, by his side, 

Our glorious banner still his pride, 
The enemy will dare. 


The absent we our vigils keep 
Where’er on guard, in tent ; 

Our sympathies are hushed and deep 

On tired march, or when asleep ; 

Round vacant beds we pray or weep, 
And life with love is blent. 


OUR VOLUNTEER’S BIRTHDAY. 


HE sky, it was veiled and dark when we rose, 
The storm-cloud obscured the mountain from 
sight ; 

The winds were at war, nor peace, nor repose 

Came in with the day, as we prayed that it might ; 
We spoke of the time we love to recall, 

The joy that to us thine advent conferred, 
That a mystery thus should forever inthrall 

The changes that early in childhood occurred. 


I took up the Book and read for the day 
‘The psalm — O, how sweet were the notes of the song, 
The burden of which to those who obey, 
That God would ever His mercies prolong ; 
The children of Israel,— this was the theme, 
The promise that to His people were given, — 
Of those who rebelled, of Joseph, his dream, 
Of Jacob, and, too, the Anointed of Heaven. 


The clouds that hung heavy by noon were dispersed, 
Their fury was spent in tornado and rain, 

While I the events of thy boyhood rehearsed, 
And pictured each scene from memory again ; 


172 ‘OUR VOLUNTEERS BIRTHDAY. 


Then, venturing forth, I gathered, while wet 

With rain-drops, the buds and blossoms so fair ; 
In thine own little room the clusters I set, 

And felt in my heart thy presence was there. 


While musing, each trifle a value possessed, 
Too sacred for pen or for thought to portray ; 
And secretly I each token caressed, 
Which seemed to respond, — He is twenty to-day ; 
Twelve months has elapsed since first thou obeyed 
The summons of dread — the war-bugle’s cry ; 
Twelve months since thou wert in armor arrayed, 
With spirit undaunted, to do or to die. 


As a tree that is seared by the lightning’s blast, 
Struggling through the wildering gale, 
I have stood till the news of conflicts swept past, 
Sustained by the hope that right must prevail. 
Vicksburg surrendered ; firm, glorious, and true, 
Didst thou stand in the front, with comrade so bold, 
Till our fag was unfurled, the red, white, and blue ; 
But, alas, when may I my hero behold? 


At Jackson, the first confronting the foe, 
Where Carruth, the brave, his ensign did place 
On battlements firm, the first there to glow, 
His vanguard a page will our history grace. 
Till thy wounds shall be healed, O, beloved of mine, 
Look up to the crowns thy victors have gained ; 
We'll blessings invoke on thee and on thine, 
Till health is restored and peace is obtained. 


OUR VOLUNTEER’S BIRTHDAY. 173 


When our land shall be purged, when banners of light 
Shall float unobscured by clouds of the past, 
When freedom no more is cursed with a blight, 
May I be allowed to enfold thee at last: 
A harbinger thus—clouds, sorrow, and joy, 
The sun’s bursting forth on the landscape to-day 
To lighten the gloom,—JI these omens employ, 
And trust in the songs the psalmists convey. 


WITH A MEERSCHAUM. 


BEG that thou, beloved friend, 
My taste will never doubt, 
If I a meerschaum now should send 
With feelings most devout. 


For I have pressing on my mind 
That I may not disclose ; 

Some friends we have, appearing kind, 
Who lighten many woes. | 


But after all the future may 
Unravel every theme, 

Divesting us with some delay’ 
Of facts, just as they seem. 


To picture forth the troubled heart 
Thou hast so oft relieved — 

But I would not to-night impart 
How much some gifts have grieved. 


"Tis ended now. A trifle this 
To thee, beloved, may seem ; 

I’ll pray that most consummate bliss 
Inspire each smoking dream. 


IN MEMORIAM. 


| GRASSY mound, with violets blooming o’er, 
; Not all forgotten ; here the song-birds pour 

And blend their music with the rippling wave, 

Above a cross which marks a freeman’s grave ; 

The mild rebuke reflected from thy song, 

Minstrels of light and air, to me belong — 

Ye daily chant where the departed rest, 

Singing till day sinks in the golden west. 


Dost know, sweet birds, that by this lonely shore, 
Where all unbidden, brilliant notes ye pour, 

Here rests my kin who left his father-land, 
Resisting monarchs and a tyrant band? 

His griefs and wrongs are all unsung, untold, 
Oppression spurning, noble, generous, bold, — 
Would that my lyre, my feeble lyre, could wake 
Music undying, for his memory’s sake. 


What were their thrones to thee, empurpled o’er, 
Or crowns of jewels that thy monarchs wore, 
Their robes of royalty, of pomp and state, 

Or kingly courts, and all who on them wait? 


176 IN MEMORIAM. 


Not such as these could charm thine eye and ear, 
But calls that echoed loud, and wild, and clear, 
For Freedom! Liberty! for peace and love! 
Bowing thy knee to but one King, above. 


Thy children’s children, now, alas, again 

Are battling, too, for what thou didst attain ; 

With loyal hearts they steadfastly endure, 

With bleeding forms, and spirits dauntless, pure 

As this fair cross which tender hands have brought ; 
Pure as the love which in the. marble wrought 

The touching record, here so sweetly graved, 

Which has thy dust from dark- oblivion saved. 


THE ROYAL STEAMSHIP CANADA. 


AY all the fates combine, 
That rule the winds and the sea, 

To guard these treasures of mine; 

I yield to its destiny, 
To-day, ah, did I possess, 

To soothe, a magical charm, 
Old Neptune I would caress, 

His wrath subdue with a balm. 


While on the ocean, fair ship, 
Out on the fathomless deep, 
Many a tremulous lip 
Will pray for angels to keep ; 
Many a heart will be stirred, 
Many an unbidden tear 
Prudence has coldly deferred, 
While bidding the loved good cheer. 


O, with an earnest farewell 
To those we trust to thy care, 
Safely each billow repel — 
Safely and tenderly bear 


12 


178 


THE ROYAL, STEAMSHIP CANADA. 


Our charge. The plummet of love 
Is sounding the heart to its core: 
May He who reigneth above 
Bless and protect and restore. 


LINES 


TO MYSELF AFTER DISAPPOINTMENT. 


RESS to your bosom, but smile as you press, 


The thistle and cankering thorn ; 
Nor murmur at fate, nor anguish, distress, 
For this, my child, you were born ; 
Poison ofttimes in the fairest of flowers 
Is venomous, hidden and deep ; 
Rest if you will in beautiful bowers, 
Expect but sorrow to reap. 


This is the process to polish, refine, 
The crucible made for the soul ; 

The world and all its vain peltings combine 

_ To force to the heavenly goal ; 

Then cheerfully bow, and mind not the pain. 
A blessing is wrapped in the curse ; 

Tis servile and weak to rebel or complain — 
Of all ways this is the worse. 


"Tis base to repine: your Father has said 
He chastens but to make pure ; 

For sorrows the blessed Redeemer has bled ; 
If deep, ”o matter, endure / 


180 ZINES TO MYSELF AFTER DISAPPOINTMENT. 


The cup take and drink, du¢ smile as you drink, 
Although it flows over with gall ; 

Though bitter the dregs, still drazn it and think 
Your Father has sent you it all. 


ON AMES’ PICTURE OF “MAUD MULLER.” 


HE canvas quite glows with this wonder of art, 

From my memory surely it never will part — 
This image which greeted my vision while there ; 
Why language quite fails when I try to compare 
This picture of Maud, which the poet portrayed, 
‘And Ames has with beauty and grace so arrayed ; 
So perfect and lovely the beautiful whole, 
As though it contained a pure living soul. 


Conceptions how lofty the painter inspired ; 

And as he embodied how much he admired ; 

His dream how enchanting, his colors sublime, 

So blended each tint by his touch half divine, 
Spiritual, aye, still a creature of life, 

Here born to be burdened with anguish and strife ; 
To the painter so gifted I fain would appeal 

That he may no more such beauties reveal. 


ON CHRISTENING THE AMMONOOSUCK, 


BY A YOUNG DAUGHTER OF THE LATE CAPTAIN FRENCH, 
Ai. thes 


EAUTIFUL child, my memory haunting, 4 
Loosen thy tresses of jet to the breeze ; 

Stand by thy sire, with heart never daunting, 

Christen this day what we give to the seas ; 
Stand ’neath our flag on the iron-clad rover, 

Firm on her deck, O thou vision of light, 
While we implore of Him, over and over, 

To guide and to guard with His infinite might. 


Stand thou, a type of our wishes fulfilling, 
A symbol of love, all pure from the soul, 
While cheers and while cannon the heavens are thrilling, 
And music is lending its charms to the whole ; 
Give to the seas now her name, while repeating 
Ammonoosuck, the name of the river that flows 
From hills where the sun and clouds are competing, 
Where peacefully nature her grandeur bestows. 


O, brothers at war, if ye were but beholding, 

If ye in your dreams this glad morning could view 
Her image, the mystical waters enfolding, 

No more would ye battle or terrors pursue ; 


ON CHRISTENING THE AMMONOOSUCK. 183 


No more should we call for armor or casing 

To shield from the blows that in madness are sent, 
No more should we start with passions abasing, 

No more should our homes with sorrow be rent. 


A symbol of peace — it is childhood beseeching, 
A herald sent forth, ah, beloved ones, to-day, 
The dove with a branch, in holiness teaching 
That prayers of our fathers our foemen obey ; 
Beautiful child, while throngs are attending, 
O, nobly baptize her all clad in her mail, 
Protecting, uniting, our honor defending, 
Quelling each conflict, outriding each gale. 


TWIN SISTERS, 


WHOM I MET PLAYING ON THE AVENUE WITH GILDED 
REINS. 


WHERE is your home, ye beautiful things? 
Sweet creatures so bright and so fair, 
Stay, let me look for your folded wings ; 
Are they hid ’neath that wealth of hair? 
Closer, for ye may a magic impart, 
Just a touch of that golden twine ; 
O stay, I would know if mortal ye art, 
Twin sisters of beauty divine. 


O where is your Eden of love and of rest? 
I ask you again and again ; 
Nay, think not that I would ever molest, 
Or sever your golden rein. 
Long may it bind, may it ever unite 
Twin hearts ever pure as to-day ; 
Till linked by a cord, more precious and bright, 
To heaven, for this would I pray. 


MARY OF BETHANY. 


‘* She hath done what she could.”’ 


HE came alone, that noble one, nor thought what 
might betide, 
Alone she stood, how beautiful, there by her Saviour’s 


side ; 

She trusts her faith is strong in Him — His form I may 
not dare 

To speak in tones, to paint in words, a picture half as 
fir: 


Yet I, alas! my pen may take to utter or reveal, 

Emotions such as move my heart, such as to-day I feel ; 

The scene surpasses human skill, that I a sketch might 
make 

Of her who brought and gave her all, her all for Jesus’ 
sake ! 


In Bethany, fair Bethany, where lovely streamlets wind, 

With His disciples at the board the Saviour there re- 
clined, 

In Simeon’s house, upon a couch, when Mary to him 
came ; 

This deed of kindness won for her a never-dying fame ; 

Her piety and zeal He blest, she brought Him all her 
store, 


186 MARY OF BETHANY. 


*Tis held in sweet remembrance still on ree Christian 
shore ; 

That we aan rapture might possess, her nature might 
partake, 

To do our best, to give our all, our all for Jesus’ sake! 


With power divine her soul was touched, straightway 
was she impelled 

To act — tell me if love like this was ever yet excelled ? 

Her brow all radiant with joy, a marked and earnest 
face, 

How beautiful, how beautiful her form of perfect grace! 

She bowed in sweet humility, devotion tender, true — 

How lovely grows the picture now as I the theme 
pursue ; 

Her heavenly, pure, holy love compelled her to forsake 

Her ways, to go and bring her all, her all for Jesus’ 
sake. 


She sought her treasure—aye, her last, her last and 
only one, 
For how could she refuse to give when He her heart 
had won? 
The precious ointment, see it flow upon her Saviour’s 
7 head, 
As they indignantly do frown, but nought has she to 
dread : 

“Wherefore this Vea >” they all exclaim, “tis rh too 
costly, rare ; ) 
Vetishe, wiheeding their rebukes, bows like an angel 

there ; 


MARY OF BETHANY. 187 


The box of alabaster sweet, with pure affection, brake, 
And meekly lavished there her all, her all for Jesus’ 
sake. 


“To what great purpose is this waste ?” with wonder and 
with scorn 

Did they rebuke this sacrifice, yet she in love kept on ; 

The world had no attraction now, she steadfast homage 
paid, 

His overpowering influence she joyfully obeyed ; 

This influence would that I could feel, this influence 
divine, 

Would that my stubborn heart, to-day, might all to Him 
resign, 

That a memorial the poor, of me some time might 
might make, 

And say, “She nobly gave her all, her all for Jesus’ 
sake.” 


LINES 


SUGGESTED BY THE REMARK —“IT IS COOL THIS 
MORNING.” 


T is never cool where’er is felt 
An influence like thine, 
Encircling like a zone or belt ; 
The very glaciers would melt 
If near thy heart or hand they dwelt, 
O’er charities sublime. 


It’s never cool to meet a friend 
Who never framed excuse, 
Evading, lest, to condescend, 
Appeals would ever him attend ; 
Or, miserly, his purse defend 
With plea of some abuse. 


It’s never cool to know that such 
A one is near to bless ; 

However small, however much 

The gift, ’tis magical to touch, 

While we the radiant motive clutch — 
The dower in its dress. 


OWE AeA le 2S COOL, LIC, 189 


*Tis never cool to feel that while 

Laborious is the way, | 
And sorrow’s clouds may darkly pile, 
Through this thy deeds would bring a smile ; 
*Tis godlike ever to beguile 

As thou hast done to-day. 


ON THE DEPARTURE OF THEaG a 


AKE them, fair ship, these friends of mine, 
Into thine arms and safely keep ; 
With sad reluctance we resign, 
Aye, with feelings true and deep; 
With prayers unuttered in the heart 
We'll render up as ye depart. 


Hope, Faith, and Love, these three combine, 
Inwrought in glowing pictures strong ; 
How bold the tints, how rich and fine, 
As mystic scenes around us throng. 
A light from heaven on such will flow, 
Radiance shed as on ye go. 


Take them, father, mother, son, and bride ; 
Quell every fear which may arise ; 
Know ye how much we now confide, 
How much in love without disguise? 
May every change a charm impart, 
New health, new vigor, to each heart. 


Take them, and may the winds and waves 
Be ever lulled to peace and rest ; 


ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE CUBA. 


The ocean calm, as on ye glide 


With these, our treasures, on its breast: 


We crave the boon of strength, of power, 
Half to express this parting hour. 


Another charge, O, good ship, — I 
Would pardon ask for this delay — 

Her boy to bless, embrace; good-by, 
Fair Emma ; on thy deck, to-day, 

A gem more prized ye cannot hold ; 

Our hearts must keep the rest untold. 


That Neptune and the Naiads keep 
A never-slumbering watch, I ask ; 


That loved ones, while with thee, may reap 


The pleasures, we in sunshine bask ; 
May Heaven protect, all ills dispel ; 
Time speeds, and now a last farewell. 


IgI 


ON REVISITING ST. JOHN’S CHURCH, PORTS- 
MOUTH, N. H. 


H! now again with joy I stand, 
A Where oft in childhood’s hour I stood, 
Or, kneeling with a worthy band, 
In faith how strong, in works how good ; 
I see again the dim-lit aisle 
Within this grand, this sacred pile. 


The organ’s peal now moves my soul, 
Reminding me of blissful years, 

And waves of music sweetly roll — 
How beautiful the scene appears ; 

Now softly opes the vestry door, 

My sainted pastor* comes once more. 


Still trembling on my ear, each wave 
Of harmony, subdued and clear, 
And echoing through the vaulted nave 
The anthems, bringing heaven near, 
A heart-renewing, touching strain, 
How sweet, how sad, to meet again. 


1 Rev. Dr. Burroughs. 


ON REVISITING ST. JOHNS CHURCH. 


To pastor still I owe a debt 
Of gratitude I ne’er can pay ; 
How can the youthful heart forget 
Who first revealed the heavenly way, 
Who first awoke, or lit the flame 
With pictures painted in His name? 


I felt I never more should stray, 
Temptation never more should harm, 

While here I learned the heavenly way, 
And drank the purifying balm 

Which flows for all from Calvary’s side, 

For all who will in Him confide. 


The chancel and the altar rail 
Suggest a sadder picture now, — 

*Twas here my lovely sisters knelt, 
Knelt for the rite, baptismal vow ; 

And holy hands lay on each head ; 


Long since they’ve slumbered with the dead. 


And from the window I behold 
A little grave with tablet rise ; 
The story I have often told, 
How Mary left for Paradise ; 
My playmate through those fleeting hours ; 


193 


Mine strewn much more with thorns than flowers. 


My pen can scarcely now convey 


The scenes this old church brings to view ; 


13 


194 ON REVISITING ST. JOHN'S CHURCH. 


The prayer, the psalm, the solem lay, 
Are still more dear, and yet as new, 
As were they when I stood among 
This flock, when life and hope were young. 


LINES 
ON THE PORTRAIT OF THE LATE DR. DELANY, U.S. N. 


PICTURE sketched of light and shade 
All softly by the sun ; 
The outline, form, how perfect made ; 
His features, brow, grandly portrayed, 
And insignias of rank and grade, 
The highest honors won. 


When summoned to the bed of pain, 
Inspiring, rich his zeal 

The sufferer’s confidence to gain ; 

And tenderly — should such complain — 

The cure, the cause, gently explain, 
With art and skill reveal. * 


I see him now; his courtly grace, 
His sympathetic way 
And voice. Delany’s soul-lit face 
A gifted artist scarce could trace — 
Imagination may replace, 
As thus it does to-day. 


196 


LINES ON A PORTRAIT. 


Departed dead! can this be so, 
A shadow only left? 
Alas! that sorrow, grief, and woe 
Must follow wheresoe’er we go ; 
We must not weep, O! no, no, no! 
Though of his smile bereft. 


O! plant the myrtle on his grave, 
The lost, beloved, renowned ! 
There, too, the evergreen should wave, 
While winds chant requiems to the brave ; 
With tears the spot shall memory lave, 
The blessed, the heaven-crowned. 


AN INCIDENT. 


T St. Paul’s, to-day, I stood by the door, 
To witness a cortege, a funeral train ; 
A flower I tried to snatch from the floor, 
From the casket it fell, a moment had lain ; 
Trembling I stood; another passed by, 
Picked up the flower, with tears and a sigh. 


A poet had died, and gone to his rest ; 
Sweet were the emblems affection bestowed ; 
Do such really bloom in the land of the blest, 
Such flowers as these, with dew overspread ? 
Beautiful tokens, the poet to crown, 
Lily-gemmed chaplets for well-earned renown. 


OUT TO BOARD. 


OU’RE very kind me to invite, 
My friend, with you to dine ; 
I could not be so impolite 
This kindness to decline ; 
I really cannot well afford 
Not to accept —I am out to board. 


The first night of our change, you know, 
I threw myself upon my bed, 

White dress enveloped all aglow, 
Remember you now what I said? 

How buoyantly my spirit soared, 

That I, at last, was out to board. 


Our landlady, good in her way, 
Aye she endeavors hard to make 

Some money, and I think we pay 
A heap to her, and no mistake ; 

Economy — O ain’t we gored . 

At our house — we’re out to board. 


I really never knew before, 
Not by sad experience, 


¥ 


OUT TO BOARD. 199 


How to save every scrap and core, 
To make of these a hash or mince; 

This mixture I have oft ignored, 

Must eat it now — I’m out to board. 


The old cracked bell is rung and rung 
To call us where the rations wait ; 
Not dainties such as Blot has sung 
Find we upon our dinner plate ; 
Professor, aye, he would be floored 
Should he, like me, go out to board. 


Our rooms are furnished in the style 
That often such apartments are ; 
But these our stomachs won’t beguile 

With a table at low par ; 
Could home to me but be restored, 
I’d never more go out to board. 


I therefore now accept, and wish 
You’d not, my friend, before me sit 
A single rich, nutritious dish, 
Unless you’d deal it bit by bit; 
My system is so weak and lowered — 
For six months I’ve been out to board. 


* 


TO A DEAR FRIEND. 


F thee let me beg such lines not to send ; 
No, I could bear, better bear, a cross word, 
Than thoughts and emotions so sweet, loving friend, 
Which have my dull pulses all stirred. 


I may not possess the gift and the grace, 
The exuberance, the skill, and the art 

Which is thine; but O, what can ever efface 
Those beautiful lines from my heart? 


If these are impromptu, pray never be led 
To study, or try any other to sing; 

Not to me, but remember my poor heart and head ; 
And to these shall my memory cling. 


DOGGEREL. 


WEET lady, I come, 
Prince is my name ; 
I hope that you'll be 
A very kind dame ; 
Don’t look with contempt 
Upon my small size, 
But see and admire 
My wonderful eyes. 
Of one thing I’m fond, 
A chicken’s sweet bone ; 
One thing I hate, 
’Tis to be “eft alone ; 
I’m a puppy you see, 
Must yelp and must cry 
A little —don’t kick 
As me you pass by. 
Your friends and yourself 
I’m bound to defend ; 
They say I am smart 
To my narrative’s end ; 
If you will be kind, 
Through sunshine and fog, 
In me you will find 
A considerable dog. 


LITTLE GARNETT. 


The Rev. Dr. Guernsy, of Washington, D. C., in a sermon on Thanksgiving-day, 
in which he made a pathetic appeal for the poor, related the following touching inci- 
dent connected with one of his visitations. Upon asking a lovely child of a widowed 
mother wo she thought were the happiest people in the world, she constantly re- 
plied to all his interrogations, ‘‘ Those who are always warm.”’ 


N a hut of logs, while storms beat wild, 
Sitting alone in the dark, 
Sitting alone, in a corner piled 
With ashes, with chips, and bark, 
Little Garnett, with bright golden hair, 
With beautiful face and form, 
She nestled and hummed a plaintive air, 
The burden, “Those who are warm, 
Only those who are warm.” 


Here scarcely a ray of fire-light gleamed 
Into this desolate place, 

And scarcely a ray of sunshine beamed 
From Garnett’s wasted face ; 

Closer she folded her garments round, 
Round about her fragile form ; 

A pitiful sight, a sadder sound 
Her song, “‘ Who are always warm, 

Only those who are warm.” 


LITTLE GARNETT. 203 


An ambassador of Christ stepped in, 
Aye, into this hovel drear ; 
And said, “My child, pray why do you sit, 
Sit mourning and singing here? 
Who do you think, say, my dear Garnett, 
Are happy through cold and storm?” 
She smiled, her dark eyes were wet, — 
“Those who are always warm, 
Only those who are warm. 


“My father, sleeping in the cold ground, 
And mother working so late — 
She is always working, working round — 
I can do little but wait. ; 
Very seldom have we any fire at all, 
Kitty sits singing to me, 
My fingers get cold — Kitty I call 
(Kitty is my friend, you see), 
She’s warm as warm can be.” 
“Garnett, think you that children who live 
In houses with dresses so gay, 
Who plenty enjoy, riches to give, 
Are happy throughout the day?” 
She rose up, and said, “Sir, I am eight 
To-morrow ; soon can perform 
Duty that’s light, work early and late, 
And keep my dear mother warm ; 
I envy those who’re warm.” 


204 LITTLE GARNETT. 


The visitor’s words, so touching, kind, 
Few can know to her how dear ; 

His gifts, his love, and prayers combined, 
Her abode, so cold, to cheer ; 

And here he left this sorrowful child, 
While terrible raged the storm. 

He bade adieu ; then sweet Garnett smiled, 
She sang, “ Vow we shall be warm, 

Truly happy, when warm.” 


THE PENITENT’S PRAYER. 


O Thee I come, to Thee I bow, 
O Father, unto Thee! 
Thy countenance upon me now 
O let it lifted be! 
My heart bowed down with care, with sin, 
Would a new course to-night begin 
Upon my bended knee. 


For every sinful thought I'd seek | 
Forgiveness at Thy shrine ; 

Here penitent and frail and weak, 
I tremblingly resign 

My heart ; however unprepared 

To meet Thee, Father, I have dared 
To meet Thee, all divine. 


With a keen sense of sin and pain, 
Before Thee I appear ; 
O let my plea be not in vain, 
But lend a listening ear. 
With deep contrition I would claim 
Salvation in my Saviour’s name, 
A faith undimmed and clear. 


LHE PENITENT S FRAYER, 


With Thy divine permission, love, 
My all to Thee I bring; 

Then make me meet for realms above, 
Unto Thy cross I cling. 

My sins forgiven, I would crave 

Strength all temptation here to brave, 
Thy love forever sing. 


ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A PRAYER-BOOK. 


TAKE the book, and mayst thou turn 
Each day to read, to kneel in prayer ; 
Its truths embrace, its precepts learn, 
That thou, at last, a crown may wear. 


A gift I could not bring to thee 
More precious, on thy wedding-day, 
Or one more truly dear to me, 
Than I now on thine altar lay. 


LINES 
BY A LADY ON SEEING SOME STRICTURES ON HER WRITINGS. 


HY not condemn the opening flowers 
For basking in the sun’s bright ray, 
As me for use of yearning powers 
When nature calls me to obey. 


Why not condemn the light, the season, 
The sweeping clouds, the drooping fruit, 
As crush those strains when chiding reason 
Whispers I must not keep them mute. 


Why not condemn the meteor’s flashes, 
That oft illume the evening sky ; 

Condemn the wind or wave that dashes, 
When warring elements go by? 

















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